After It Rains
by pot kettle black
Summary: Hermione and Draco accidentally fall back in time while escaping a Death Eater initiation. In the future, Hogwarts is invaded by Voldemort for its own good? Features personable Slytherins, too much plotting, HGTR, DMHG, comedy, drama, and boyBlaise fun
1. one : the second letter

**After It Rains **

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**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter.

**Summary: **Hermione and Draco go back in time and end up meeting Tom Riddle and a few future death eaters.

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**VERY IMPORTANT NOTE:**

**I am working very hard on the rewrite of this story, which is currently posted as _Noughts and Crosses. _It is so much better and closer to my intended plot that I have actually decided to discontinue this story for the time being. **

**As much as I really don't want to, I'll be leaving this version up. It always really irritates me when authors decide to rewrite stories and completely take down the old versions and then get like ten chapters into the rewrite and stop or something. Also, maybe, there was something you really wanted to read from the old version only you couldn't because they killed it and it's really upsetting, etc. So, this version is staying here.**

**HOWEVER, I am actually _committed_ to the rewrite. Yup, you read that. Committed. I really, really would like to finish this story in the best way that I possibly can.**

**So, if you like the characters and you like the plot, I _seriously_ advise that you read _Noughts and Crosses_ which has both, but better written and generally better executed.**

**The rewrite seems a bit darker and more serious, but if you liked the humor of this, don't think it's gone. I've never managed to write a serious thing in my life without it sounding really awkward to me (which is why, incidentally, I have to revise and revise and revise The Raveller/Happily Ever After-- that story really isn't funny at all until at least chapter three, so getting there is...yeah, awkward). So it's in there. Trust me. **

**Also I AM writing The Life and Times. I know it seems like I haven't updated that story in _forever_, but it's actually incredibly hard to write. Because he's so evil, but I keep wanting to make him so funny and it's like evil-funny-evil-funny-evil-funny... the balance is really delicate there. I mean, you'd think it wouldn't be, but for some reason, it's hard. I'm a paragraph in to chapter four, though, and it's looking pretty good so far. If you haven't read that story, you should go and check it out while you're waiting for my slow self to update the AIR rewrite. Which by the way is good and different enough from this version to be readable (Plus, really, when's the last time you actually read the beginning of this version anyway?). **

**Really though. _The Life and Times of Tom Riddle, Dark Lord, etc._ is one of the few works of mine that I can say, without a doubt, that I actually _like_. _Noughts and Crosses_ is much, much better than _After it Rains-- _and it's the same story.**

**So if you want to get to clicking and reading some (I hope, at least) fairly decent TRxHG my profile thingy is right up there. If you really, really still want to continue reading this story, there's a dropdown that can assist you with that.**

**But honestly, again, the other stories are way better. Like way better. Especially _The Life and Times_. **

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**CHAPTER ONE**

_the second letter_

_

* * *

_Dear,

I'm not sorry. I never was.

-Tom

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**Notes:  
- **chapters following this one usually top 3000 words  
- the next chapter is _labeled_ chapter three, but it follows this one  
- this fic takes some dedication to read-- it's very long and has lots of mystery and subplots  
- i _will_ finish it. as monstrously huge as it may be.


	2. three : the great escape

**CHAPTER THREE**

_the great escape_

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_November 11, 1996 _

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Draco Malfoy was not in a good mood. 

In fact, he might've gone so far as to say he was in a _bad_ mood.

But then he figured that sort of thing happened when you were standing in a cold dark chamber waiting to get a binding mark tattooed on your forearm in a process that seemed excruciating. And, as he surveyed the room, he couldn't help but wonder if it was too late for him to back out.

The ceremonial proceedings were no different than any other time Draco had been in attendance. The ring of Death Eaters in Voldemort's inner circle were as solemn and attentive as ever with their heads bowed and hands clasped as though they were praying to some religious icon. The Death Eaters of the future stood unsteadily behind them, stalk still and frightened out of their wits. They seemed afraid to even breathe. If it weren't for the Dark Lord himself the proceedings would've looked absolutely ridiculous. But he had an aura about him that commanded constant and respectful terror.

The initiates stood at the outskirts of the bunch, waiting patiently for their turn. There were always three to a ceremony, although Lucius had told Draco that for "commoners" the proceedings were paced a bit quicker, done with less elegance, and the Dark Marks were more of the "mass-produced" ilk. Voldemort himself was hardly present for those and the job of initiating went to one of his closer followers and every one of them had their own special way of doing things.

According to his father, this sort of initiation was a privilege, an honor; Draco should've been bouncing off the walls on the insides to be getting this sort of treatment.

But he wasn't.

Pansy Parkinson was in the center of the circle, kneeling in front of Voldemort, an arm raised. In another setting she could've been someone waiting to be knighted. Voldemort was whispering things that Draco couldn't quite catch. Not that it mattered, it was probably just some trash about lifelong allegiance, and Draco would hear it all soon anyway.

It was all so neat and eerie. Absolutely nothing like what Draco had imagined when he was a bit younger during the time when his father saw fit to fill his head with tales of murder and mutilation. After watching a ceremony Draco had asked about the lack of violence. His father had replied, "The Dark Lord understands that certain things must be done with a degree of elegance and I for one fully agree."

Even though it was damn obvious he didn't agree. Much as he admired his father, Draco had to admit that deep down under the sophisticated veneer Lucius Malfoy liked the brutality of it all, which was something anyone with half a brain could see, and something he'd always been just a little afraid of.

Around Voldemort, however, Lucius stood impotent and tame, about as scary as a puppy. Not a big puppy either, maybe a Yorkshire terrier.

And after the ceremony Draco would be a Yorkie too, just like dad. Not that he could fault his father for that, of course. Draco knew exactly what he felt; memories of the Dark Lord's "pep-talk" earlier that summer still disturbed him.

Pansy was screaming in pain, the pale beginnings of the mark being etched into her arm. But it was what she wanted. What they all wanted—to finally become Death Eaters and join Voldemort in his reign of terror. It would be an honor.

For reasons he couldn't coherently mesh into words at the time, Draco didn't feel like being initiated, or honored, or joining Voldemort in his reign of anything. Dully, he wondered if his cousin was rubbing off on him before dismissing the thought, quickly. Although it _was_ true that Blaise _wasn't_ here even though he should've been.

Vincent Crabbe had taken his place, and he stood in a corner rubbing on some of the Dark Lord made and manufactured magic dark mark hiding cream. He'd squealed sort of like a pig being dipped in a vat of hot oil when he'd received his mark. Not that Draco knew what a squealing pig being dipped in hot oil sounded like, but he felt he could assume.

And Crabbe really just invited pork-ish comparisons. Draco had visibly paled while listening to him. The young Malfoy was not a fan of pain. At least not when it was happening to him, and in a few minutes it _would_ be happening to him.

He reflected on that for a moment, and then wondered how hard it would be to escape.

From what he gathered, they were in some sort of secret chamber under Hogsmeade. The initiation process was lengthy, and Voldemort wouldn't be able to do much while Pansy was receiving her mark. All he had to do was get to the street; there were teachers all over the place. Tensions were running high, which made it imprudent to have a gathering of Death Eater's right under Dumbledore's nose. But Voldemort knew what he was doing. He was always a step ahead. That was bad.

Draco looked around the room again, shifting his weight unconsciously as he turned. His eyes widened when they fell on an open door a little to his left. Draco stopped swaying and stared at the door, before glancing at the room around him. No one was paying attention to him. All eyes were on Pansy. And the door was open.

_Hmm_, Draco thought, his eyes flickering back over to the exit before he kicked himself mentally. Trying to escape from a Death Eater initiation had to be just about the stupidest thing he could do.

But that door was open.

Which was funny, because it wasn't usually open. Actually, to his memory there was never an open exit during initiations or meetings of any sort. So was it fate? Draco shook his head slightly. He didn't think so. Fate didn't do anyone favors. As a matter of fact it seemed to like screwing people over. Yet still…

Without thinking much, Draco began to edge toward the open door. _Nobody will notice me,_ he thought, _nobody will notice me, nobody will notice me, nobody will notice me_.

With one last look around, Draco slipped out of the chamber into the entrance tunnel; he backed up a few steps into it before turning around and running.

He wished his breathing was softer, he wished his feet were less heavy, and every time he looked back he expected to see Death Eaters thundering behind him.

There was one corner in the dark and dank tunnel that Draco almost tripped over going around, his head was so turned behind him he couldn't see anything in front of him, which wasn't helpful in a pitch black tunnel. Up ahead he saw the steps and the dim daylight outside.

Then he saw something that perplexed him, a bright spot of light from someone's wand—the _Lumos_. And he heard something that horrified him. "Hello?" someone called, blindly, "Is anybody hurt?"

* * *

Hermione was late. 

Ron had decided, the day before, that the best way to celebrate _finally_ having a Hogsmeade visit was to go to the Three Broomsticks for brunch. Hermione had been against it all the way. "Ron are you daft? How can you even think of going to Hogsmeade right now? It's too dangerous what with Voldemort back and—"

"Aww come on Herm, if Dumbledore said it's ok it must be ok. I'm sure they have the place heavily guarded or something," Ron reasoned.

"Besides, I think if I have to stay in this castle any longer I'll go mad," Harry muttered.

And Hermione really couldn't blame him. Lately people had been staring at him and whispering a whole lot about his scar and Voldemort. There was even a rumor going around that he'd helped to bring Voldemort back on purpose. Of course Harry would want to get away from all that. Fear of Voldemort meant not many people were venturing into Hogsmeade and that was a good thing.

"Oh alright," Hermione had conceded, "I suppose it'll be fine."

It wasn't, however, so fine when she found herself late heading through Hogsmeade on her own. All because of that stupid piece of paper. She'd told them not to wait up if she took too long, but she'd figured she had enough time to get downstairs.

Apparently not.

Hermione tried not to be angry, she really did. After all, it wasn't their fault that they were male and therefore the stupid scourges of the planet. She sighed and kicked a pebble in front of her. In any case, it was a very nice day to be out.

Then she heard someone screaming.

It sounded shrill, terrified, and very much pained. Beyond that it was coming from an alley Hermione had never noticed before. _Odd,_ she thought, _this is Hogsmeade… I thought I knew every nook and cranny_. She shrugged. _Maybe I missed it somehow_.

The screaming came again, louder this time, and without much thought Hermione started down the alley towards it. _Sounds like trouble, _she reasoned,_ no time to get anyone, besides, like Ron said they probably have the place heavily guarded. _

But when she reached the end of the alley she was having a few second thoughts. Firstly, there was a staircase leading down into some horrendously dark place. Secondly, it was stupid to run off on her own when Voldemort was around. Thirdly, it was such a nice day and did she really want to spoil it like this? Agonized screams floated to her ears again and she winced. Darn those second thoughts and Gryffindor bravery.

"Lumos," she muttered, holding her wand in front of her for light. _Ron and Harry will come looking for me if I'm really late… _

"Hello?" she called, tentatively, reaching the bottom of the stairs, and wincing at the rather loud echo her voice made, "Is anyone hurt?"

_Well obviously,_ she thought, stupidly, _someone is screaming bloody mur—!_

She didn't have time to finish her thought—someone tackled her to the ground. "Aiiyeeep!" she yelped, as she kept her head up, trying to keep it from hitting the stone floor.

"Shut up!" someone whispered harshly, "stupid, bloody, _loud_, mudblood!"

"Malfoy!" Hermione exclaimed, recognizing her assailant. "What are you doing? Get off me! What is going on here?"

"I said, _shut up_."

* * *

Draco felt like a fucking idiot. He'd tackled her thinking it'd shut her up, but no. She'd screamed. He resisted the urge to smack himself soundly on the forehead and thought up a plan B. 

Years and years of living with Lucius Malfoy had taught Draco a great many things, one of which was to be sneaky enough and a quick enough to cover your own arse. He stood up and dusted himself off, pointing his wand directly at Hermione, who was still on the floor.

"Malfoy, I asked: What is going on here?" she asked, impertinently as she tried to stand up.

He rolled his eyes. "And I said, _shut up_. And stay down. Or else…" he let the threat hang and half waited for a response. He could already hear the Death Eaters coming down the tunnel, and if he craned his neck about two feet back he'd see the lights from their wands. And if he didn't think a little bit quicker, Granger would be dead, and he'd be a Death Eater.

Neither option really sat well with him. He supposed he just wasn't a fan of dead people.

When Voldemort's inner circle surrounded them just a few seconds later Hermione looked a bit frightened and a lot confused. Draco on the other hand already had his lie in place.

"What is going on here?" the elder Mr. Malfoy asked from beneath his Death Eater hood.

"I heard a noise, so I came to check it out myself because I didn't want to disturb the ceremony, and I found _this_ piece of filth spying on us. I'm sorry for disrupting things," he apologized, turning his eyes to the ground in what he hoped passed for humility.

"Well next time be _quiet_," Lucius reprimanded.

Draco nodded, eyes trained on the floor. Hermione had been holding her wand when he'd tackled her. Draco looked for it while playing at being demure.

_Ah ha!_ He'd spotted it, and it was close!

It was at about that point that he'd noticed Pansy had stopped screaming.

Draco jerked his head back just in time to catch the Lord himself sauntering down the tunnel, Pansy hurrying in front of him. He didn't seem to need light to move or feel the need to move at any pace other than leisurely.

Malfoys had a special knack for telling when the best times to be afraid were, and now Draco felt like his blood was freezing in his veins. It was a well known fact that Death Eaters—especially his father— didn't tolerate fear very well, so he'd learned to stop showing it. Unfortunately, that didn't mean he stopped _feeling_ it.

"Lucius, what is going on here?"

Before his head turned into a cowardly pile of mush, Draco pulled himself together and again took advantage of the fact that everyone was looking at Voldemort. He inconspicuously nudged Hermione's wand over to her with his foot. He looked at her face, hoping against hope that she'd catch his hint and be ready and waiting to jump up and attack on his cue.

One glance was all it took to tell him he was doomed.

She was horrified.

_So much for Gryffindor bravery,_ he thought bitterly.

* * *

Hermione was downright baffled and definitely not having what she would've called the best day of her life. 

She tried to organize what she knew had happened to make sense of what was happening at the moment. From what she could gather it was very, very bad. She'd somehow wandered into a Death Eater meeting. Those screams she'd heard could've been someone being tortured or... or something else. She grimaced.

"I suppose we could _dispose_ of her after the ceremony," A Death Eater suggested, maliciously. "I could take care of it, if you wish, my Lord."

_Dispose of? _She thought bleakly. _I knew this was a bad idea._ _I'm dead, or tortured or… _Unless Hermione was imagining things, something had just hit her arm lightly. She moved her head just a bit to get a good look at it. _My wand?_ she thought, perplexed. _Don't tell me it just flew to me of its own volition…_

She looked around, confused. _Right, Herm, you're surrounded by Death Eaters and one of them just happened to be _so_ nice he decided to kick your wand over to you, _she thought, sarcastically. Then her eyes fell on Draco Malfoy. He was looking at her. She was confused. He looked away. _Oh._

Voldemort was speaking now. "Actually," he said, "I think it would be ideal if young Draco were to kill her after his initiation. As a sort of _introduction_." He drawled the word introduction in a way that made her skin crawl.

His deep red eyes glowed viciously and for the first time Hermione saw, up close, his serpentine features. _He could be the devil_, Hermione thought, _All right, so perhaps the devil is more bull than snake but…_ she gulped, nervously.

"Brilliant, my lord!" Lucius exclaimed, immediately jumping to praise his leader. A chorus of "Yes, of course, brilliant!" followed not half a second after.

"It would be an honor," Draco intoned, deeply.

"All right then, I think we should continue the ceremony," Voldemort said.

A chorus of "Yes, milord!" followed and they all turned at once to go back where they'd come from.

"Come on, Draco," Lucius said, briskly, "And don't forget the mudblood."

* * *

Draco had always hated how the Dark Lord phrased a lot of his commands as suggestions even though they really weren't. If he'd said: "Actually, no, you see, I don't really want to become a Death Eater and as such I don't really think I should kill the mudblood because then Dumbledore won't take me in and shelter me and keep me safe from you people, who will most certainly try to kill me," Voldemort would've most certainly tried to kill him. And he would've most certainly succeeded. Making it seem like they sort-of had a choice was downright cruel. 

Draco washed all quasi-rebellious thoughts from his nice little head, which he hoped to keep in tact for many, many years to come, and said: "It would be an honor," in the deepest, most sincere tone he could muster.

"All right then, I think we should continue the ceremony," Voldemort said.

Again with the pseudo-suggestions. It didn't matter. Everyone said "Yes, milord!" like they usually did and turned at once to go back to the chamber.

"Come on, Draco," Lucius commanded, briskly, "And don't forget the mudblood."

"Yes, father," Draco replied.

The "mudblood" looked highly insulted at having been called a mudblood and highly frightened at the prospect of her imminent demise. He pulled her up, roughly and blinked a few times. Unless he was seeing things she'd just tucked her wand into her sleeve. His eyebrows furrowed slightly. Then he caught her trying to make eye contact with him. He masked his relief with a cleverly timed smirk and waited a few moments for the Death Eaters to round the corner before whispering, "Petrificus Totalus!" at his father's retreating back. He wasn't quite sure if the curse would work as a whisper. It came out hoarse, desperate. _Would_ it work?

Lucius Malfoy fell to the ground, stiff as a board. And before the Death Eater next to him—Crabbe, Draco guessed—knew what was happening, he was on the floor as well. Hermione wasn't one to miss a beat.

And just like that the both of them bolted back toward the entrance. Adrenaline coursed through their veins. They could see the light at the end of the tunnel and the stairs. Almost there…

As soon as they set foot on the fifth step someone grabbed their ankles and pulled. Draco's left knee hit a corner. Hard. His hand scraped against the stone as he braced himself to keep from hitting his head. A sideways glance told him Hermione wasn't much better off. In a matter of seconds the entirety of Voldemort's entourage was assembled in front of them.

Without stopping to breathe or even think about the pain in his knee, Draco got up quickly and ran in the opposite direction. He half hoped Hermione was doing the same. But if she wasn't that wasn't his problem. He turned back and fired a few curses at the shell shocked Death Eaters to make it a bit harder for them to chase him.

He rounded the corner and headed straight back to the chamber. If he wasn't mistaken there was another door back there somewhere. He didn't quite know where it went or how he was going to get past… _Shit_.

"Pity I have to kill you," the Dark Lord murmured, his malicious grin completely contradicting his sympathetic voice. "You would've made a good Death Ea—"

He never got to finish his sentence.

* * *

Hermione's second trip to the ground that day was far from fun. 

She saw Draco get up and run away, she saw him firing curses at the Death Eaters as he went. _Idiot,_ Hermione thought, pulling herself up to dash after him, _he should've just blasted right through them! _She ran as fast as she could, following his trail and firing a few more curses to incapacitate the few Death Eaters still standing. They seemed to find it incomprehensible that two teenagers could get the better of them. For a few seconds she wondered exactly why she was chasing after him. _Because he's heading straight for Voldemort, that's why._ For some reason that didn't make much sense.

She decided not to think about it; instead, as she rounded the corner she kept her head turned behind her, scouting for any sign of the Death Eaters.

With her head turned back so much she failed to notice a few things. For instance: Draco had stopped running. Voldemort was in the chamber. She was running straight toward him.

And since she didn't know she was heading for him. And he didn't think that she would have the audacity to come within a foot of his intimidating person. The inevitable happened.

Hermione turned her head just in time to see the Dark Lord just footsteps in front of her. Before she could stop herself she was tumbling into him and the both of them fell to the floor in a tangled mess. _Oh God…_

"Granger, are you bloody insane!" came Malfoy's shrill voice. He walked toward her and tried to pull her up.

It didn't do much good; she was paralyzed like a deer in the headlights or some such. _Oh... god..._

Voldemort, however, wasn't as afraid of Hermione as she was of him. "You'll pay for that!" he shouted, scuttling out from under her and backing away. He took a few moments to straighten out his robes and recover his wand before glaring at her.

Hermione finally got a hold of herself and stood up, suddenly, nearly knocking Draco down in the process.

She reached for her wand—useless since Voldemort already had his out. His grin returned and Hermione didn't think that could mean anything good.

"Avada—"

* * *

Many know November 11th as Armistice Day, Remembrance Day, or Memorial Day. 

In 1918 the First World War ended on this day, which is still celebrated as a national holiday in a few countries.

Coincidentally, on that same day a certain wizard by the name of Warren Mumps was in his secret chamber in Hogsmeade, working diligently on his masterpiece.

And while the world above him rejoiced, he threw down his hat, a smile creeping across his face.

They'd called him crazy, they said it couldn't be done—but at exactly 11:11am Warren Mumps cast the most powerful spell he'd ever created in his life.

He was never seen or heard from again.

* * *

Due to circumstances ultimately beyond his control (time for instance) Lord Voldemort was unable to finish casting the curse that would've killed Hermione Granger. 

For some odd reason, both she and Draco Malfoy had simply vanished. And even the Dark Lord himself was at a loss for what could've happened.

If there were digital clocks in Hogwarts, they all would've read (in fluorescent green numbers) 11:11am.

* * *

**_end_****_ notes_**: _reviews are always appreciated 'specially when they're critical even though it might not seem so sometimes because you can't hear my voice when I'm typing / _**(revised changes mainly with grammar and word choice)**

_THANK YOU!_

**_WordE.Smith, dark star, and gothic neelm_**


	3. four : undead in slytherin

**CHAPTER FOUR**

_un-dead in slytherin_

****

_November 11, 1942 _

* * *

Hermione's eyes squeezed shut. She was fairly sure she didn't want to die with her eyes open, it would definitely upset people if she didn't look peaceful... 

"Hey, come on, open your eyes," Draco's voice, deep, unsteady.

She shook her head. "He won't be the last thing I see," she said. The words came out much more resolutely than she'd expected.

"Granger, your intelligence is overrated. If he were killing us we'd be dead by now," Draco sounded annoyed now.

"_My_ intelligence is overrated? _My _intelligence!" she shouted, her eyes flying open. "You're the one who ran straight towards bloody Voldemort instead of out of the tunnel, _genius_."

Draco scowled. "My intelligence can't be overrated. No one thinks I'm intelligent. And do you see now? There's no one here."

The realization came slowly at first. She didn't quite feel dead and Draco was right: there wasn't anybody there. "What happened?"

"I don't know, I was going to ask y—"

"We're in hell," she interrupted, mournfully. "I mean I don't know what I did to deserve hell exactly, but you're here so this can't be heaven and we _must_ be dead. There's no other logical explanation."

"Yes," Draco said, a little too sincerely, "Because the worst punishment on earth anyone could have would be to get stuck with you as the only company for all of eternity. I suppose you're in heaven, then, though I can't think of what you did to deserve me."

"This is absolutely ridiculous," Hermione muttered, her exasperation showing in the way she threw up her hands. "I'm leaving."

"Oh, but this is _hell_, remember, you can't just up and leave _hell_," Draco taunted.

"Shush," she said, turning around. "There's a door I'm leaving."

"Fine, that's fine with me," Draco mumbled at her retreating back. Since he didn't particularly feel like exiting the same way Granger had, he started looking for that door he thought he'd spotted earlier during the initiation ceremony.

He searched the entirety of the circular chamber, kicking the stone walls in some places, but he found nothing. _I was imagining things? _His forehead wrinkled in slight confusion. Sure, the door was made out of stone like the rest of the chamber, but there had been a distinct outline and what he thought was a handle…

Draco looked around the empty chamber and shifted his weight again; trying to convince himself he wasn't confused.

_Well, this is certainly something. _Although how wise it was remained to be seen. In fact, Draco could already feel that he was maybe starting to kind of regret trying to sneak out of the initiation ceremony. Because at the moment he didn't know where he was or what was going on and he really thought there was nothing he hated more than that. _Besides, once you get back to where you were before you got here every Death Eater in Britain will be trying to kill you. Great move, Draco, you're bloody brilliant, you are. _

He shook his head. None of that mattered just at the moment. Well, it did, but a silly thing like that wasn't going to stop him from ignoring it. Because the important thing was getting his bearings, figuring out what was going on, and then getting a butterbeer. He was sort of really craving one right now. Draco shook his head and headed toward the only door in the chamber. Granger was probably long gone by now. The exit was safe to use.

* * *

Butterbeer at the Hogshead was always a bit sour and the bottle it came in was usually a few steps away from sanitary. Not at all like the kind you could get at the Three Broomsticks. Kerstan liked it that way. It presented a sort of veiled and highly questionable danger. For instance there was the possibility that he might contract some horrible and incurable disease, which would inevitably lead to a slow and painful death. 

He smiled in spite of himself and took a sip of his drink. Kerstan liked to think that no matter what he did in life, as long as his corpse was revolting and as upsetting to as many of the pompous friends-of-the-family as it could be, his death would be more worthwhile. Besides that, dangerous was interesting. Safe was boring. _And this is the Hogshead,_ he thought, happily, _there's always something interesting going on._

A witch with a slight hunchback and a patch over her left eye walked into the bar and joined a cloaked figure at a table that was just within Kerstan's hearing range.

Well, sort of. "—got—dragon?" the cloaked figure seemed to have perfected the art of whispering. Kerstan tilted his head a bit to the right so he could listen better.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the witch shake her head. "No," she said—thankfully speaking a bit louder than her companion. "You know that damned Willoughby Rush?" At the cloaked figure's nod, the witch continued. "Well, he—" she paused for a second, her right eye looking around for any eavesdroppers. She caught sight of Kerstan's tilted head and glared at him.

He frowned and propped his elbows on his table. The witch kept her eye on him to make sure he didn't try to listen again. Kerstan took a sip of his butterbeer and waited for some other shady characters to walk in. Somebody interesting and maybe not quite as perceptive as the witch had been was bound to enter sooner or later.

In the mean time he decided to trace invisible circles on the table with his fingers. Malfoys, after all, were just not the sort of people who were ever caught being reduced to thumb twiddling.

Just as he was about to say, "fuck it" and leave somebody interesting walked through the door.

"Amias!" he exclaimed, "I half-expected you'd have a black eye." For some odd reason, Amias didn't acknowledge Kerstan. He scowled. "Oh, don't tell me you're angry with me for leaving you there. Come on and sit down. I'll get you a butterbeer and you can tell me all of what happened with, ah, you-know-who." Kerstan said, suddenly aware that almost everyone in the Hogshead was looking at him. Sometimes he felt like an idiot, he really did.

* * *

It didn't take a genius to figure out that mudblood Granger was probably running off to Hogwarts to find her beloved Dumbledore. She'd seen Voldemort, she'd learned the identity of a few Death Eaters, and to top it all off she'd nearly been killed. Besides that, her intelligence was, as he'd said before, highly overrated. 

As Draco stepped out of the alley and onto the normal street he'd noticed a couple of things. First off, all the buildings looked newer. Secondly, everyone seemed dressed in the oddest old-fashioned robes. "You have to either be fifty or at a costume party to get away with wearing dowdy old things like _that_," Narcissa had kindly pointed out to him one Christmas as she opened a present from her mother. "Oh but she remembered my favorite color!" she'd finished with a smile.

Muggle-born, mudblood Granger wouldn't have known that fashion tidbit (or his mother's favorite color) and had she known she wouldn't have remembered it anyway. Her head was too full of Voldemort and such things. Draco, on the other hand, was marvelously unaffected by his encounter with the Dark Lord. (Well, if he was going to be honest with himself he was most definitely affected, but he was pretending he wasn't and that was good enough for him.) And he knew enough about wizarding fashion to know that something was definitely not right in the town of Hogsmeade.

So he headed straight for the one place in the village he knew information could always be found at: the Hogshead. Because reliable or not, information was information, and that butterbeer craving was really nagging at him.

He stepped into the bar confidently, his mental checklist at the ready to see what things were different and what things weren't. The bartender wasn't the same, although that was a given, and there appeared to be less Death Eaters milling about having their covert meetings to discuss…bloody whatever the hell it was they discussed. In fact, Draco only spotted one cloaked figure at a table with an ugly as hell witch with an eye patch.

"Amias!" someone almost shouted, "I half-expected you'd have a black eye."

Draco froze at hearing that name. It sounded extremely familiar. If only he could place it…

"Oh, don't tell me you're angry with me for leaving you there. Come on and sit down. I'll get you a butterbeer and you can tell me all of what happened with, ah, you-know-who."

It took Draco a few seconds to connect the voice to an individual with yellow-orange hair at a table somewhat near him. It took him a few more seconds to realize that this yellow-orange haired individual was talking to him.

"I don't think I'm who you're looking for," Draco said slowly, walking over to him. Something about the individual reminded him a lot of himself. And a certain relative…

The individual peered at Draco, closely, sitting up a bit to do so. "That's odd, you look so much like him. You must be a relative I don't know about. My name is Kerstan Malfoy, and yours is?"

_That's not possible_, Draco thought, blandly. _Uncle Kerstan is _old_. This person is… _"Draco," he ventured, hesitantly, "I'm Dominic's son."

"Uncle Dominic has a son?" Kerstan inquired, eyes widening slightly. "I never knew that."

_It is great... grand... whatever, Uncle Kerstan!_ Draco tried not to let his amazement overwhelm him, and concentrated instead on lying. "Yes, well, he doesn't keep in touch with the rest of the family much and I've been going to Durmstrang. I don't think anyone really knows about me."

"Durmstrang?" Kerstan seemed a bit curious now. Every Malfoy had to study the illustrious family tree; it was obligatory really. Draco thanked Merlin for the well-placed estranged family member. "Sit down," Kerstan insisted, gesturing to an empty chair across the table.

"Thank you," Draco mumbled, taking the offered seat.

"Now then," Kerstan said, "You said you went to Durmstrang?" Draco nodded. In the Malfoy family one relative never said 'nice to meet you' to another. Usually that simply wasn't true. "What are you doing so far from home?"

"My mother's dying wish," Draco lied, "She didn't like Durmstrang much and wanted me to go to a proper school like Hogwarts, so here I am. Didn't you get the letter?"

Kerstan frowned. "What letter?"

Draco looked worried. "My mother wrote three letters about my coming here before she died. One was for the Headmaster, one was for you, and the other was for Amias. You didn't get yours?" Kerstan shook his head. "Damn!" Draco swore loudly. "I told her that owl was on its last legs, probably died on the way here. Useless pile of feathers."

"You sent all three letters with one owl?" Kerstan raised his eyebrows.

Draco nodded and looked regretful. "Our others were out delivering Dominic's odd correspondences and by the time they got home, mother was dead."

"Pity," Kerstan said, taking a sip of his butterbeer. "Well, you don't seem much like your father—"

"You've met him?" Draco interrupted, surprised.

"No, but I've heard stories," replied Kerstan, "Anyway, it's around the time that everyone heads back to the school. I suppose I could take you back with me and we could talk to the headmaster. Dippet's a pushover and he's got a soft spot for Slytherins," Kerstan said, shrugging, "I'm sure it'd be no problem settling the matter with him and if expenses are a problem my father will take care of it. Family is family after all—as long as you're nothing like your father, that is."

Draco smirked. The answer to this question was easy. "If I ever become like _that_ man, please, feel free to curse me."

* * *

Hermione had exactly one objective in mind: tell Dumbledore what happened. 

Of course that one objective was slightly complicated. Hermione stood behind the portrait of the one-eyed witch chewing on her nails nervously. Oh, she knew it was a rotten habit, but she didn't have the Marauders Map. There was no way of telling whether anyone was walking by and heaven forbid she exit the portrait right in front of someone like Snape.

She shifted her weight uneasily. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, to open, or not to open, that is the question ladies and gentlemen. _This is ridiculous. I'm wasting time, Voldemort's out there somewhere!_

With that thought she shoved through the portrait as fast as she could. The door closed quickly.

Hermione paused to take a look around. The only possible witness to her portrait hopping stood a few feet away from her with his back turned. Even without seeing his face she recognized him instantly, there was simply no one else in the school that possessed that same white blonde hair. "Malfoy! How did you get here before me?"

He turned around at the sound of her voice. He seemed to be rubbing his cheek with his left hand. "Beg your pardon?" he asked, politely, "I'm sorry, but I don't think I've ever met you before."

Hermione looked at him oddly. "You're not Malfoy," she concluded, after taking a few steps closer to him to get a better look.

"Yes, actually, I am. My name is Amias," he looked confused but not annoyed.

Hermione felt guilt for bothering him well up in her unexpectedly. That bruise of his couldn't have made talking fun, not in the least. "I'm sorry," she apologized, blushing slightly at her earlier behavior. "I meant you're not the Malfoy I thought you were. Excuse me." She turned to walk away.

"Oh," he said, his voice a bit softer, "Were you looking for Kerstan then?"

Hermione turned round again. "Who?"

"Never mind," Amias replied, walking up to her. "I didn't catch your name."

"I'm really in a hurry," Hermione said, shifting her weight again.

"In such a hurry you can't give me your name?"

The situation was getting odd almost to the point of discomfort. Here was a Malfoy look-a-like, who also happened to be a Malfoy, and he was asking for her name and looking—dare she say _playful_. Not playful malicious or playful vicious or playful harmful. Just teasing slightly in good fun. It was almost too much. "Well," she managed to reply, "It is quite long and it takes very many people a great deal of time to learn to pronounce it, so I suppose the answer would be yes."

Those words could've been discouraging, but the smile she gave along with them was anything but. "Well why don't you at least tell me where you're going? That way I can help you get there. This place is hard to navigate if you're new."

Resisting the urge to say "I'm not new, I'm in my sixth year!" Hermione simply said, "Headmaster's office."

"All right," Amias replied, "that's just up this way."

She was a bit baffled as this Amias person led her down corridors she already knew by heart, explaining a few portraits and things they came across. He seemed like a very animated speaker, but had to point at everything with his right hand because his left was still massaging his cheek.

"Maybe you should have Madame Pomfrey look at that," she said, gesturing vaguely toward his cheek.

"I'm sorry, who?" he asked.

"The infirmary, I meant the infirmary," Hermione corrected.

"Oh," Amias smiled, "I don't think so. It's fine. Was Madame Pomfrey the nurse at your old school?"

Hermione nodded absently. "How did you get that?"

"This?" he asked, pointing to his own bruise. "I had a slight disagreement with a friend of mine."

"So he just punched you?"

"Actually no," Amias admitted, sheepishly. "I threw the first punch, he ducked and slugged me."

"Oh," Hermione said, eyebrows furrowing slightly. This nice person tried to punch his friend? Something about that didn't quite make sense to her. "I hope it was worth it," she said, a slight smile gracing her face.

"I think it was." Before Hermione could comment on that, she spotted the stone gargoyle that signified the entrance to the Headmaster's office. "We're here," Amias announced, happily. "The password is 'firework'. I haven't a clue why."

After he said the words "firework" the gargoyle slid to the side revealing a tall staircase. Hermione fought the urge to grown. She was really, really getting sick of stairs. "Thank you," she said.

"I'll wait for you down here," he replied, "Wouldn't want you getting lost again."

"No, that's not necessary, really," she implored.

"It's my pleasure," he replied smoothly, "Now go on up, you said you were in a hurry."

And at that moment the reality that had been suspended ever since she happened upon this strange freak of Malfoy nature came crashing down on her. Voldemort, in Hogsmeade, Death Eater initiations, must tell Dumbledore. Without another word she dashed up the stairs. _How in world did he make me forget?_

* * *

It was a fine day to be outside and Armando Dippet enjoyed fine days outside, thank you very much. 

He was a smallish balding man, who, unfortunately, was mostly stuck inside his office on very fine days. At times he thought his office was a dark creature planning to sap the life out of him by bringing up small bits of paperwork and the like to keep him in when all he really wanted to do was go out for a stroll.

It was unnerving, really, the thought that his desk could turn against him at any moment.

But one had to persevere, he supposed, and persevering was always much easier when one had an entire bag full of chocolate frogs and other treats. Albus had kindly dropped them off before heading to Hogsmeade to watch the children. That wizard was a godsend. Sometimes Armando wondered if maybe _he_ should be Headmaster instead.

Those thoughts were always washed away quickly by a bit of chocolate or a pumpkin pasty. Madame Woodson always scolded him about his sweet tooth. "Those candys'll rot your teeth," she'd threaten, "And they aren't helping your weight problem any."

Which reminded him: he should really take a walk, around the grounds or something. He hadn't jogged in quite a while and three laps round the lake weren't inappropriate for the Headmaster of Hogwarts was it?

As he was mentally plotting his exercise route, the door to his office opened and in came a girl. "Um excuse me?"

Armando looked up at the girl. She had brown hair that was a bit frizzy but nothing radical and she was wearing the oddest robes. "Dear me!" he exclaimed, happily. She took a step back. "You're from the future aren't you? Oh dear me! You've no idea how long I waited for the chance to _speak_ to someone about the time travel experience. Come, come, sit down, sit down."

The girl sat down in a large plush chair across from him unsteadily. "Excuse me, sir, what do you mean 'the time travel experience'?" she asked, worry lines snaking across her forehead.

"I mean exactly what I say—don't you know what year it is?"

She shook her head lightly. "No, actually I was sort of wondering what was going on…"

"It's 1942," Armando declared jovially. "What year are you from? And tell me what's your name? If you tell me yours, I'll tell you mine."

She seemed caught between frowning and laughing out loud. She chose to do neither and instead walked a tentative middle ground. "1996," she replied, "and sir, your name is on that placard right there." She pointed to a tiny little golden sign that said, quite proudly, "Headmaster Armando Dippet".

"Oh, yes, that silly thing," Headmaster Dippet said, flippantly, "That's not my _real_ name though. My real name is Warren— why hello Amias, Kerstan."

Hermione turned into her seat to see who'd just entered. "Malfoy!" she exclaimed, narrowing her eyes.

"Bloody hell I don't look _so _much like him," Draco muttered.

"Professor Dippet," someone said, "I've brought my cousin, Draco. You see, he's transferring here but apparently the paperwork got lost." He stopped, "I'm sorry for interrupting. You must be the girl Amias was talking about."

* * *

Kerstan had never been one of Draco's favorite relatives, but after talking to him for a bit it was easy to see why Lucius liked him so much. The man seemed to be everything Lucius wanted to be but never quite was. Draco couldn't explain it any better than that. Actually at the moment he was having trouble explaining everything going on in his head. Vaguely he considered taking up painting. Then again color could be horribly confusing. 

He and his uncle were walking in a rather small crowd of Hogwarts students chaperoned by a few teachers, one of whom appeared to be Dumbledore. It was hard to tell, the man was younger and had brown hair, but there were those oddly shaped spectacles and the faces were so similar. Draco fought the urge to laugh.

If Granger had gone to the school in search of Dumbledore she wasn't going to find him. Just the thought of her wandering around aimless and utterly confused was enough to make him smile.

When they reached the school, Draco let Kerstan lead him to the Headmaster's office.

"Hey, Amias, you're still alive—what happened to your cheek?" Kerstan said, spotting someone he knew as they approached the gargoyle.

"He punched me," the man, apparently Amias said. "Who's that?"

"Draco," Kerstan replied, "Dominic's son."

"Really?" Amias asked, looking at Draco. "I didn't know he had a son… you must be the one she was looking for."

Draco's eyebrows knitted together. "Beg your pardon?"

"This girl I met earlier—she must've thought I was you from behind. She's upstairs with the Dippet," clarified Amias.

"I can't blame her," Kerstan shrugged, "I thought he was you when he came into the Hogshead… You said a girl, is she pretty?"

"Not in a conventional sense really," Amias said, easily.

"Right, well we're going to see Dippet. Draco's transferring here."

"Really? What school are you coming from?" Amias asked him, "That girl knows you, is she from the same school?"

"Durmstrang," Draco replied, ignoring Amias's second question. "I think I'd better go up now."

"I'll come with you," Kerstan said. "Firework."

The gargoyle slid open to reveal the staircase again. "See you later, Amias," Kerstan said, waving slightly as they climbed the staircase.

"—name is Warren," they heard as they opened the door to the Headmaster's office. "Why, hello Amias, Kerstan," Dippet greeted as they entered.

"Malfoy!" Granger exclaimed, turning in her seat.

_She got here before me? Oh,_ he thought, feeling stupid, _of course, Amias._

"Bloody hell I don't look _so_ much like him," he grumbled.

"Professor Dippet," Kerstan started, "I've brought my cousin, Draco. You see, he's transferring here but apparently the paperwork got lost." He stopped, "I'm sorry for interrupting. You must be the girl Amias was talking about."

"Oh, no, not at all," Dippet said. "Why don't you go downstairs for a bit? I'll take care of it. Draco, have a seat," he said, gesturing to a plush chair next to Granger.

Draco did as he was told.

"Thank you, sir," Kerstan said, before going downstairs.

Once he was gone, Dippet looked at Draco squarely. "I suppose you're from the future as well?"

Draco nodded slowly and glanced over at Granger. _How did he know?_ He thought, wonderingly. The mudblood looked slightly skeptical.

"Hmm," Dippet murmured. "Well, I think I'll have to talk to you both more extensively sometime in the future—" Dippet chuckled a bit at the unintentional pun "— but now there seem to be two Malfoys downstairs waiting for you," he concluded. "They're not the type to be kept waiting. Fine boys though, the both of them. In any case I think you'll both need to go into houses. What do you think of Slytherin?"

Draco smiled. "I'd like to be put in Slytherin, sir, if it's not too much trouble."

"Oh, no," Granger said, "What about Gryffindor? Or Ravenclaw? Maybe even Hufflepuff, sir?"

"Nonsense," Dippet replied happily, "You'll do fine in Slytherin. You've already made a friend in the Malfoy clan. Yes, it's the perfect idea."

"But sir!" Granger protested, "I'm a muggleborn!"

Draco's smile had long since changed to a frown and he nodded in agreement. "She is. Don't you think that maybe she should be—"

"Nonsense," Dippet repeated, forcefully. "She'll do well in Slytherin. I think. What's your name, dear?"

"Hermione Granger," she replied, "And—"

"Oh we can't have that!" Dippet interrupted. "Granger isn't a proper pureblood name. What do you think of Rush? Yes, Harmony Rush and Draco Malfoy to Slytherin. Professor Bourdillon will be so pleased."

"But—" Granger started.

"All right then, I think you should get downstairs. I'm sure Amias and Kerstan would be delighted to show you around," Dippet said, ignoring her.

"But, sir—"

"Off you go, I'll speak with the both of you later," he said, waving his hands dismissively.

"The sorting hat, perhaps—"

"Oh, why wake it up for something so trivial?" Dippet asked, blandly, "Shoo then, toodles."

Draco was a bit shell shocked, but shook himself out of it quickly. "Come on, G—Rush," he said, correcting himself.

"And remember now!" Dippet called as Draco dragged a still-protesting Harmony Rush off down the stairs, "Don't tell anyone about the future, you might spoil things!"

**_

* * *

end_****_ notes_**: another revamped chapter... i think this is the last of these though. **(revised changes mostly grammatical &etc)** : another revamped chapter... i think this is the last of these though. 

_THANK YOU!_

_**WordE.Smith, Cupiditatis**, __**Jade**, **hpfanf****, and ****sexy-jess**_


	4. five : granger, hermione

**CHAPTER FIVE**

_granger, hermione_

****

_November 11, 1996_

_

* * *

_If there was one thing Severus Snape knew well it was the inner workings of the Slytherin house. 

He'd suffered seven years in it, survived it, and grown up where others had crumbled under the force of its malicious drive.

It had given him valuable experience and honed his instincts so that he could spot small, but significant details from kilometers away.

And at the very least, it let him notice when huge, obvious changes were shoved right under his nose.

His mental count of the group of Hogsmeade students was finished before Professor McGonagall pulled out her mid-sized, official list. Before she'd even spoken the first syllable of Hannah Abbot's last name, he knew that something was horribly wrong.

Two people were quite conspicuously missing, and he had a feeling this had something with the two people who had quite conspicuously insisted on having their names removed from the Hogsmeade visit list just two minutes before the group left, and that, most probably, had something to do with two people who were now quite conspicuously rubbing their left arms and looking a touch worried.

There were times when his Potion Master's instincts forced him to view the world as a gigantic, volatile concoction. A massive equation in which everything had to be measured in and figured with the utmost precision to ensure stability. It was a view that, at times, could have him almost compulsively seeking out miniscule discrepancies and making small efforts to correct them. It was a view in which six figures off could be deadly.

"Granger, Hermione."

Severus crossed his arms and allowed his permanent frown to deepen. His focus shifted from Professor McGonagall, to Potter, to Parkinson, and back again as silence dragged on. Professor McGonagall's hands tightened on the parchment and she cast quick, almost panicked glances at Severus and Professor Flitwick before clearing her throat and calling again, louder this time.

"Granger, Hermione?"

The entirety of the small crowd was apprehensively quiet now as they, like Severus, looked back and forth between Professor McGonagall and Harry Potter. The wonder-boy and his weasel friend were currently whispering between themselves, a chocolate frog leg dangling out of the redhead's mouth.

"Ms. Granger are you here?" The Transfiguration Professor's lips were dangerously thin and her voice was edging on the shrill side. Potter and Weasley were still whispering and Weasley was still cramming sweets into his mouth.

After a few more seconds of protracted silence, Harry finally spoke up. "Professor McGonagall, Hermione didn't come today."

"Yeah," Ron seconded, taking a moment to swallow the bit of chocolate still in his mouth. "She stayed behind to look at some books or something."

"She was supposed to meet us, but we think she got caught up at school, because she didn't show up," Harry concluded with a shrug.

Out of the corner of his eye, Severus could see Professor Flitwick shaking his head, his eyebrows furrowed in what the Potions Master assumed was worry. "No, no," he was saying, even before Harry finished speaking. "I brought her here with the second group, she should be here."

"We would've seen her," Ron insisted.

"Draco's missing too!" Pansy Parkinson wailed. Severus scowled. It was almost easy to forget how enterprising the Parkinson girl could be when pressed.

Professor McGonagall's eyes widened and her mouth hung open just a bit. The words "Oh dear" were practically stamped across her face as she said, "We need to inform the Headmaster. Immediately."

"Of course." Flitwick nodded. "We should hurry back to the school—Severus, are you all right?"

Snape was staring down Hogsmeade's cobblestone streets, his eyebrows pulled together in the center of his forehead. "I'm going to look for them," he muttered. "They can't have gone far."

"You can't be serious!" McGonagall exclaimed. "It's dangerous, what if—" she paused and lowered her voice. "What if _He's_ here?"

"That's precisely my point," Snape replied, through clenched teeth. "When you get back to the castle you need to question, _thoroughly question_, Pansy Parkinson, Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, and Blaise Zabini—and don't forget to check their arms."

It was Professor McGonagall's turn to knit her eyebrows. "Why—"

"Minerva, time _is_ of the essence," said Professor Flitwick after checking his watch and looking back at the castle. "Severus won't you reconsider and come back with us?" Snape shook his head in response and Flitwick nodded. "We can't force him," he reasoned at McGonagall's expression. "Be careful," he added.

Severus declined to acknowledge him and strode off without another word.

"All right," Professor McGonagall announced, forcefully quelling her fears and assuring herself everything would be fine, "We are going back to the castle," because this was Hogsmeade after all and there wasn't an inch of it Volde- _You-Know-Who_ knew that they didn't. And besides he wouldn't dare try anything so close to the school—so close to Dumbledore.

_He wouldn't dare. It'd be too risky. It wouldn't make any sense._

"But what about Hermione!" Harry shouted.

"We can't just leave without her!" Ron seconded.

"And Draco too!" Pansy shrieked.

"Yeah!" Crabbe yelled, finally catching on to what Pansy was doing.

"Professor Snape is looking for them," Professor Flitwick assured.

"That isn't good enough!"

Minerva McGonagall clasped her hands tightly in front of her, her lips thinning into a near-straight line. "We are going back to the castle. _Now_. Make sure you don't stray from the group."

The effect was almost immediate. And if two certain Gryffindors couldn't reign in their enraged glares, they certainly kept quiet about them.

Somehow he knew it was useless to search areas like the Three Broomsticks and the Hog's Head. But he had to look anyway, had to hang on to the irrational, intangible hope that they were safe somewhere and had just lost track of time. It only took him a second to reject that thought, though, because people like him didn't hope. That sort of thing was left to people like Dumbledore. People like him had to be practical, realistic.

He looked anyway. Shoving open the doors of the Three Broomsticks, he half scared Madame Rosmerta to death with his entrance before he asked her if she'd seen either Draco or Hermione. She hadn't. It was the same at Honeydukes and Zonkos. At the Hog's Head and Gladrags and everywhere else he looked. He checked basements and even walked up to the Shrieking Shack. They were nowhere to be found.

And if Voldemort did have them, they could've apparated anywhere by now. The question was where from, and what had they been doing before? He walked down the street, hands stuffed in his coat pockets as he looked around.

"Oh, Tom you rascal, come here this instant—stop pulling your sister's hair! Oh! I swear, if your father were here he'd never—"

"Mo-ommeeeee make him stop!"

Snape's head turned at the sound and he saw a woman attempting to take care of two young children. He'd questioned the mother before, but he hadn't talked to the children. With a shrug, he started toward them. After all, he didn't really have much else to go on and if he'd been one to believe in signs, a young boy named "Tom" would probably have counted as a big one.

"Mo-om my head hurts, make him stop, make him stop, make him stop!"

"Tom! I told you to let your sister's hair go! This instant! That means now young ma—"

"Excuse me," he interrupted smoothly.

"You again?" she replied caustically. "Well what do you want now? I already told you I didn't see a—Tom what in the world are you doing?"

The exultant toddler had long since released his sister's hair, and was now running up and down the street at top speed. "Whoosh!" he shouted happily, over and over again.

"Tom? Thomas!"

"Excuse me," Snape said, attempting to command her attentions.

"Look, mommy I'm on a broomstick! Whoosh!"

"Tom, there is no broomstick, get back here. It isn't safe—Emily what do you want?" the last part was directed at the little girl, who was currently tugging at her mother's robes.

"I want a chocolate frog."

"I don't have a chocolate frog," the woman replied, exasperatedly.

"But I want a chocolate frog!" the child insisted.

"I told you, I don't have a—Thomas stop that now!"

Snape could feel the impending migraine. All that shouting and those children… "Excuse me, miss, I was wondering if—"

"Wronsky feint!" the boy yelled triumphantly.

"No, Thomas, don't—"

The boy plunged to the ground face first and almost instantly erupted into a fit of tears. "Oweeie, mommy, it hurts, owww, oww, owwiiiieee…" His nose was bleeding, and numerable cuts and scrapes covered his legs and arms.

"I told you it was dangerous, didn't I?"

"Owww!" the child howled.

"Mommy, can I have a chocolate frog?"

"No, sweetie, mommy has to take care off your brother," the woman replied as she performed various spells on the injured child.

"You're a poo-head!" the girl complained, loudly.

"No you're a poo-head!" the boy retorted, almost instantly forgetting his injuries at this insult.

"Nuh-uh."

"Yuh-huh."

Fully believing that in a few seconds the calm oak that represented his patience would crack and fall, crushing the two toddlers under its mighty trunk, Severus spoke up again. "Excuse me, miss, but I was wondering if I might have a word with your children."

The woman finished with her son and whirled on the potion's master, glowering suspiciously. "What for?"

The background cawing of "Nuh-uh", "Yuh-huh" threatened to drive Snape insane. If it didn't stop soon he was going to scratch out his eyeballs, tear out his hair, he—"I just wanted to ask them the same questions I asked you."

The mother rolled her eyes as if to say "you bother me for this?" and turned to her children.

"You're a sissy-wissy!"

"Am not!"

"Are too!"

"Am not!"

"Are t—"

"QUIET!" the mother shouted so loudly that even Snape flinched. "Now," she said, calmer this time, "Did either of you see a girl with bushy-brown hair or a boy with really light blonde hair?"

"Yup!" the boy said, happy to be of help. "She went down the street over there." He pointed to a solid brick wall across the street.

"There is no street over there, poo-head," his sister pointed out.

"Don't call your brother names!"

"There was!" the boy insisted, ignoring his mother.

"Nuh-uh."

"Yuh-huh."

"Thank you," Snape said, quickly, nodding as he made a hurried retreat and decided that he would never bother with procreation.

He crossed the street hastily and went over to examine the brick wall that the child had pointed to. Tentatively, he reached out to touch it, expecting his fingertips to graze rough stone. But where he expected to feel brick there was nothing and, curiosity nipping at him, he stuck his hand through completely and pulled it back. He glared at the appendage and murmured the word "Illusion" before taking another glance around to make sure no one was looking. Confident that no one was paying him any attention, he stepped through.

* * *

"The brick illusion should keep out all intruders, Master," Peter Pettigrew said as he groveled before the Dark Lord. 

"For your sake I hope it does," came the bored response. Voldemort surveyed his current followers his eyes were narrowed, although it was quite hard to tell given their current shape."One of you is going to tell me what happened here."

The Death Eaters stared at him, blankly. He gritted his teeth and felt, not for the first time, the urge to hiss.

"Master, I beg your pardon?" Lucius ventured, confused.

"Crucio!" Voldemort shouted. "My patience is thinning, Lucius." he clarified just in case the elder Malfoy had somehow missed the point.

Lucius writhed and contorted in agony on the ground. The Death Eaters around him stepped away to avoid being struck by his convulsions, while his screams all but shattered their eardrums as they echoed through the underground chamber.

"Now, Lucius, your son has escaped me—with a mudblood," he began, his cool, raspy voice somehow rising above the cacophony Lucius was creating. "How did this happen?"

"P-p-p-p-p-p-port k—" Lucius Malfoy's voice disintegrated into an agonized wail before he could finish his sentence.

"Port key, yes, perhaps, but who and what?" Voldemort demanded. "Finite Incantatem. Get off the floor."

Obeying, Lucius shakily rose to his feet. Bile climbed up his throat as the room spun around him. Attempting to pick a focal point, he stood, teetering before finally straightening up. "Master," he began, slowly, stopping as his voice cracked.

"Oh, I know it wasn't you. Perhaps if you were your father… But you simply don't have the courage for such things, do you?" It was odd how slick and predatory smiles fit perfectly on the Dark Lord's new face. It was almost as though it'd been tailored just for things like that.

"No, Lord."

"Of course not," Lord Voldemort drawled, his tone condescending. "But one of you here does, and I swear; if you come forward now your death will be… relatively painless."

No one stepped forward and it was painfully obvious that the Dark Lord's patience had evaporated. "All right then, Pettigrew, the box."

The mousy man jumped up with a "Yes milord!" and ran over to the door Draco had earlier mistaken for an exit. He yanked on the handle to reveal a closet full of shelves littered with Dark Arts books, paraphernalia, and a few odd creatures contained in large glass bottles.

Ignoring all of these, Pettigrew stood on the tips of his toes to reach an old willow box that sat on the top shelf. He pulled it down as gently as he could, and noticed the box moved a bit once he was secure on earth. Saying nothing, he handed the strange box to Voldemort and bowed deeply, backing away.

The Death Eaters held their breaths nervously as their leader produced at hick black key from somewhere on his person and slipped it into the formidable rust-caked iron lock. A distinctive "click" echoed through the chamber as he twisted the key. The chest hissed as he opened it, and continued to hiss afterward.

Long, bony fingers dipped into the box empty, and came out holding a handful of small, writhing snake like creatures. Each had a set of small horns, forked tongues, and what appeared to be millions of feet. One of them opened its mouth, revealing a circular row of razor sharp teeth. The creatures were slick, black, and looked like deranged, oversized centipedes.

Voldemort stroked one of them fondly. "Mâchoires," he said with a smile as one of them savagely attempted to tear his finger off. "Lovely creatures. I think… Marcus Flint first." He pointed his wand at the boy and muttered a spell. Marcus collapsed, unable to do anything but speak and blink.

"But my Lord," his father protested, "He's young, I don't think…"

"Would you rather take his place?" Voldemort suggested almost innocently as the tiny, menacing creatures churned in the palm of his hand.

"N-no my Lord," Richard Flint stuttered, taking a step back.

The gleam in Voldemort's eyes was almost delighted as he said, "Actually I think that's a marvelous idea."

In a matter of seconds, Marcus Flint was on his feet again and glaring darkly at his father, who now lay on the floor.

"I'm feeling strangely flexible at the moment," The Dark Lord announced his voice utterly perverting the cheeriness it tried to convey. "So, Marcus, would you like to voluntarily trade places with your father?"

"I think not," Marcus said, derisively crossing his arms.

"Smart boy," replied Voldemort. "Bellatrix," he said, "Why don't you put these where they'll do the most damage?"

With a gleeful light in her eyes, Bellatrix took the squirming creatures from her master. "My Lord."

"Now, these are going to eat you alive starting with whichever body part it is that Mrs. Lestrange believes you'll miss the most—I've been told the process is quite painful and that it itches horribly later—they won't be removed until we are assured of your innocence or lack thereof. Bellatrix," he nodded and she advanced.

A malicious smile spread across her lips and there was absolutely no question about where those creatures were going to be put. The man on the ground paled visibly as she approached.

"I did it!" he shouted, all of a sudden, "It was me, please, have mercy, my Lord—they tricked me, I—I"

"Enough, Bellatrix put those in the box."

The woman did as she was told, looking for all the world like she'd just been cheated out of a great deal of fun. She fought the urge to pout and protest, settling for spitting on Flint as she walked by him.

"There is only one thing to do," Voldemort was saying. He leveled his wand at the immobile being on the floor.

"No, no, please, mercy!"

"Avada—"

* * *

As soon as he'd stepped through the faux brick wall, his ears were assailed by tortured screams—he could only guess who they belonged too. He carefully made his way down barely visible steps and through a dark corridor, navigating around corners by sticking to the walls and staying at a slight crouch to avoid detection. It had worked as well, right up until the point where he turned a seemingly innocuous corner and found himself in a well lit room full of Death Eaters, with the Dark Lord looking straight at him, apparently in the middle of a curse. 

"da—Severus?"

Richard Flint, the apparent victim, seemed more than relieved at this interruption. That was until Voldemort turned back to him. "Avada Kedavra." A blast of green light left the man dead before he'd even sorted out what was going on. "Now, Severus, have you come to do more spying on us, then?"

"No," The Potions Master replied, gathering his wits about him. "Two students of mine were missing and I merely felt I should warn you that Aurors might be coming to do a search of Hogsmeade."

"Severus, you were never an exceptional liar," Voldemort stated his words masked by a thin veneer of patience. "Two executions in one day. Both members of respectable families. I'm disappointed."

Severus Snape swore mentally once the implications of that statement hit him. He held up his wand. "Where have you taken them?" he demanded.

"Don't be a fool, I haven't taken them anywhere."

"Expelliar—"

"Crucio." The Dark Lord's curse hit its mark effectively, and Snape found himself screaming as his insides churned and constricted. "I think I'll leave you like that. You'll make an entertaining vegetable."

A resounding "POP!" from behind caused Voldemort to turn, wand in hand. His Death Eaters were already pointing and ready to shout curses at the drop of a hat. The object of their focus was a rather tall, proud elderly woman with light gray hair and dark brown eyes. "Tom," she said, with a slight nod.

"Goyle—Finite Incantatem—what do you want?"

Seizing the opportunity, Severus attempted to stand, reaching for his wand as he did so. A nearby Death Eater kicked it away, and Snape stumbled forward off balance.

The woman flinched as the Death Eaters around her laughed heartily. "Severus," she commanded, "Stay down until you've got your balance—you'll make a bigger fool of yourself than you have already if you don't." Turning her attention back to Voldemort, she apologized. "I'm here to negotiate a deal of sorts."

The Dark Lord kept silent, waiting for her to deliver specifics.

"I have information about certain people you might be interested in—people we haven't seen in a long while—and if you guarantee that Severus will forever be safe from you and your followers, I'll tell you everything I know."

"Do not make deals with the devil," Severus warned, trying to stand again.

"Severus, this man is no more Satan than I am an angel—are we in agreement?"

Lord Voldemort was quiet for a moment, his face giving nothing away. "This would be better discussed somewhere else," he stated, flatly.

"Snape Castle, perhaps?" the woman suggested.

"Of course, I trust you'll be able to transport the traitor?"

"Yes, yes, certainly."

"All right then," Voldemort turned to his Death Eaters. "Snape Castle," he told them. And with one loud "BANG!" they all apparated at once.

The woman turned round, her shoulders slumped, looking ancient and run down. "Come on then, Severus."

Severus Snape glared defiantly, his wand up and pointed. "I'm not going."

"Oh, Severus don't be silly. You won't curse me I'm your mother," she replied, massaging her forehead carefully. When Severus didn't move an inch, she frowned. "Oh, honestly, this is why I have wrinkles. You can be so daft sometimes. Just like your father," she sighed heavily. "This is the best course of action, Severus. You'll be safe, protected and if you escape you'll walk away with valuable knowledge of Voldemort's inner circle—and I assure you, escape can always be arranged. Don't be stupid. Heroics are for idiots, Severus, we're smarter than that."

Slowly, Snape lowered his wand, his head dipping lightly as well. "I swear, mother, if—"

"I know," she cut him off, "I know… But as abhorrent as the thought may sound to you, you're just going to have to trust me. Now, hand me your wand for safekeeping. And we'll go fetch the port key I left at the Hog's Head."

Severus glared at her. "There's nothing stopping me from going back to Hogwarts and alerting Professor Dumbledore right now," he said, straightening as he pulled his wand closer to him.

"There's me, Severus. If you don't come with me Voldemort will kill me. He'll kill you too, that Dumbledore of yours can't protect you forever. I'm your _mother_ Severus, and this may not always have been true, but this time I assure you _I know best_. Don't force me to curse you."

Snape felt the urge to bite his bottom lip as he grudgingly handed over his wand.

His mother's smile was bittersweet as she took it, and slipped it into her coat pocket. "Don't worry," she assured him. "Things will be fine."

Severus found it extremely hard to believe her.

**_

* * *

end_****_ notes_**: _reviews are always appreciated _

_THANK YOU!_

_**Lilykins, **__**Artemis MoonClaw, sexy-jess**, **tornbetween**, **Jade**, **Serenity, ****Lady Evanescence, ****WordE.Smith**__**Simply Myself**_


	5. six : our villainous patriarch

**CHAPTER SIX**

_our villainous patriarch_

****

_November 11, 1996_

**_

* * *

You sold your soul for fame and glory. _**

At first the world was a blur of indistinct images as filtered through a dust caked window, but as Albus Dumbledore's focus slipped in the haze clouding his eyes cleared. He eventually found himself sitting at his desk, unaware of how much time had passed since he'd... dropped out. The Headmaster's head moved near imperceptibly from left to right as he tried to gauge the events around him.

And then, abruptly, his heart stopped as his eyes fell on the person sitting directly across from him. The famously twinkling eyes widened slightly behind equally well known crescent spectacles. Neither eyes nor spectacles twinkled at the moment, both reflecting the dull sort of candlelight used to light the room after dark, because if Dumbledore was right, if he wasn't mistaken, the boy in front of him was—

Only it couldn't be. He held in a sigh of relief as his gaze passed further right, completing his scan of the room. It _couldn't _be, because there was Minerva McGonagall, stern as ever. Crow's feet traced their way lightly around her eyes—just the start of a network of wrinkles that delicately traced their way around her features. Her hair was graying slightly—another certain sign of age. That wonderful age that reassured him with the number of years it implied.

Because if Minerva was old, there was no way Riddle could be young. So the boy sitting across from him, softly and sincerely explaining himself to the Transfiguration teacher-cum-inquisitor must be Darius Zabini, or Blaise Zabini, or... No, Blaise. Definitely Blaise.

**_Why won't you acknowledge the thought?_**

_I'm tired._

**_You're _old**

He wondered how he'd lost track of time so easily. Wondered at the fact that faces, once distinct, now blended in his mind from Tom Riddle, to Darius Zabini, to Blaise, to...

**_It isn't healthy to run from your thoughts, Albus._**

Harry Potter.

**_Was that really so hard?_**

_Yes._

**_It'll only get worse, Albus. _**

_It was just the hair, they've all got the same hair._

**_You're _old, _Professor. Like I was, like He is._**

_No._

**_I'll use a cliché you're familiar with, Dear Dumbledore. Both clocks are ticking, counting down your numbered days second by second by second. Can you hear it now, Albus?_**

And for a moment he could. Except instead of ticking the "clock" let out an agonizing scream every second, tearing at his heart, and driving spears of ice into his skull. The aging Headmaster could almost imagine what the hourly chimes would sound like and the very thought made his flesh crawl. His bones felt contorted, twisted inward, stretching, bending, a constant internal agony as they shifted with every second, every signifying scream. His solace finally came in the voice of his tormentor, although the words being said did little to improve his mood.

**_Expect it to keep you up nights. But don't worry so much, Professor! He hears it just the same as you do, and he knows what it means as well. It's sort of a backward race, wouldn't you agree? Whoever takes the longest to run it wins, and just between you and I, Dear Professor, you seem to be moving a bit—_**

"—quickly."

"I beg your pardon?"

A raised eyebrow was the only comment Blaise Zabini gave about the Headmaster's inattention. "I said; we were urgent about getting our names removed from the list because it seemed like the group was moving quickly." He paused for a moment before deciding to elaborate, "We didn't want anyone to worry if we didn't answer when roll was called."

"Why didn't you want to visit Hogwarts today?"—that was Minerva continuing her interrogation—"Was there any specific reason?"

Blaise shrugged, and Dumbledore couldn't help but feel there was something familiar about it. "Should there have been?" he asked idly. McGonagall's face puckered ever so slightly, and Zabini seemed to feel it would be wise to add, "Look, I know this is about Malfoy's disappearance, but I don't know anything about _that_," he said hastily, cutting off McGonagall's half-hopeful look. "I _do _know," he went on, "that Malfoy isn't exactly what anyone would call 'bright'. So it's very possible that he's done something fitting his intellect, like... accidentally discovered some hidden cave or well, or gotten himself locked in a basement somewhere. I mean, well, have you even _tried_ looking for him? This could turn out to be a lot of fuss over nothing but my idiot cousin's, well, _idiocy_."

Noticing McGonagall's questioning glance, the Headmaster gave a quick, approving nod. The Transfiguration teacher mimicked his nod and then, sucking in a breath so slightly Blaise Zabini couldn't have hoped to catch it she explained, "Normally we wouldn't be so quick in drawing conclusions," a pause, "However, Miss Granger appears to be missing as well."

One of Zabini's eyebrows lifted lightly (Dumbledore reflected that eyebrow raising was a sort of habit with the Slytherins and Ravenclaws. The action seemed to be as contagious as a yawn—ten pound weights couldn't keep those brows from raising. The Headmaster himself much preferred the furrowed brow, common on the foreheads of Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs. _That_ expression always seemed more honest.) as he prepared to do an exemplary job of pretending to be embarrassed.

"Weh-ah... well, it's always been said that opposites att—" he stopped, wisely, given Minerva's expression. The boy raised his index finger, and then lowered it again before spreading both hands palms up in front of him. They stayed that way as he shrugged, once, and said, "What I mean to say is—" another pause as he bit the left side of his lower lip and squinched his eyes a bit, hands dropping into his lap. Dumbledore's brain itched horribly at the familiarity of this pseudo-bashfulness. It was meant to be disarming, he knew, and it had used to work on him, but he couldn't seem to match the farcical mannerisms with any actual face. A Slytherin. It _must've_ been a Slytherin. "Well," Blaise Zabini continued, "All right, what I meant to say," he repeated, definitely this time, "is that—" the sureness in his voice died a bit, and he continued slowly, "Well have you considered the possibility that perhaps... perhapstheymightbelockedinabasementtogether?" the tail end of his phrase came out in a rapid barrage of syllables and it took McGonagall a few seconds to sort it out. "Maybe?" he offered, hesitantly, shrugging again and looking moderately humiliated.

Minerva's lips pursed. "Mr. Zabini—" she began in an authoritative, scolding tone.

"Thank you for your time," Dumbledore interrupted. "We'll call you again if we have any further questions."

Blaise stood up, apparently thankful for the reprieve. "Of course," he replied. "Good day, Headmaster, Professor. I hope you find them soon," he said, nodding at each before leaving.

The door wasn't half shut before McGonagall started shaking her head in disapproval. "No, no," she muttered. "There's something they're not telling us, Albus. How could you let them all go so easily? That Parkinson girl, and Crabbe, and Goyle. They were all lying—_obviously! _And if they were, Zabini must have been also—Albus?" She stopped, just noticing that she'd stood up, waving her hands frantically, and the Headmaster hadn't even blinked. Her arms dropped in defeat.

"Order of Merlin," Dumbledore murmured, "First class, do you remember, Minerva?"

"Why, yes," she replied, vaguely stunned. "I was in my fifth year, I think."

"I don't remember," the Headmaster replied. "At least, I can't remember what he looked like. I can't see his face."

"Perhaps you don't want to remember?" Minerva suggested, her voice tentative.

"I remember how he smelled," Dumbledore went on, as though he hadn't even heard her. "I remember I recognized it from somewhere, but I could never place it, isn't that odd?"

"Albus," Minerva ventured, "Are you all right?"

"Yes, quite," he replied, lifting his head and smiling. "Just a bit tired, that's all. We'll see the four of them tomorrow, as soon as we hear from Severus."

Minerva nodded, and, thinking it best to leave the Professor to his ruminations, she did.

Once she was gone, Dumbledore rested his head on his hands, listening to a low voice that hummed along in his head...

**_You remember what I look like, Albus. You'll never forget. In my eyes you saw your own. From the curve in my nose to the rather interesting choice in spectacles, you saw yourself in me and Oh, didn't that terrify you. My face, Dear Dumbledore, will be the last thing you see._**

And Albus nodded along to the tune, as images swarmed his mind.

* * *

Blaise Zabini dug his hands into his coat pockets like he'd done when he was a kid, tiny fingers grasping for knuts, always imagining they'd close on a small brown coin—one that would miraculously appear in the depths of his lint laden pocket where no coin had fallen before. Even now, his fingers twitched slightly, hunting for the cool of that elusive metal coin. The one that simply didn't exist where he searched for it. He stopped himself, quickly, and shrugged. 

It was a bad habit, his mother had in formed him, her impeccably unbearable Malfoy upbringing glinting through for a moment. "All this gold digging," she'd say, "Scrabbling for change in your pockets, that's what—" and she always lowered her voice before finishing the sentence, as though the end of it was the foulest sort of curse, "That's what _poor people_ do."

And he'd check his tongue and try not to remind her that most of the old Zabini money had gone to charity when his batty old grandfather passed away, and that the current Zabinis owned frequently, heinously taxed property (and not much else) occupied by a few old families and friends and non-profit charity organizations who usually couldn't make rent. Which hadn't just made the Zabinis poor, it'd put them _in debt_. And since Catarina (his mother) refused to work, and Darius (his father) held a job at the Ministry of Magic (with notoriously low pay) and no one living in the family had any sort of knack for any sort of business (except Catarina herself, who, as stated, refused to work), that debt wasn't just going to miraculously disappear over night.

But at the time, Blaise's mother could never really grasp the fact, and Blaise's father had always told him never to explain it to his mother or else she'd go insane and kill them all.

Blaise had, of course, tempted fate and tested this, once. And his father had been right, his mother _did_ go insane, except she _didn't_ kill them all. What she did do was find out she had a knack for managing real estate (which wasn't, as she so often insisted, _work_). Within a week all the old tenants were summarily evicted and replaced by new people, who not only paid the rent on time, paid _higher_ rent than the old tenants had been expected to, as part of his mother's plan to pick the family out of the gutter.

She always conveniently left out the part where the old tenants were probably rotting in that selfsame gutter now, although Blaise supposed that didn't much matter to her. As long as Blaise had brand new robes, supplies, and a pretty horned owl to start his first year at Hogwarts, a million people could rot in a gutter for all Catarina Zabini cared.

Blaise and his father _could_ have stopped her from evicting everyone. Well, Blaise couldn't, but he could've argued the old tenants' case with his father, and then his father _would _have. Tried at least. But both male Zabinis considered themselves sane people. They considered Catarina Zabini a speeding train. It was almost the Zabini family motto (although neither could've told you where it'd originated, just that batty old grandfather had heard it somewhere and repeated it to them almost constantly) "Sane people do not stand in front of speeding trains, telling them 'No' and politely asking them to stop. Sane people jump out of the way." This was always followed by an "And how could _that_ be called 'cowardly'?" Blaise thought it was quite typical that the Zabini family motto was an _excuse. _

In any case, if that train meant that Blaise and his father always had silver and gold coins in their trouser pockets (they never kept money in their coats), they weren't going to do much complaining about it. Which was why, Blaise supposed, they'd both been Slytherins.

Besides that, even though they both questioned his mother's principles and sanity, they both did love her and she did love them, and while there were times when she was undeniably vicious, Blaise didn't think they occurred too often. In fact, she was usually genuinely, sickeningly sweet.

Shrugging. That was another of his "bad habits" and he did it so often it almost drove his mother into apoplectic fits.

He rounded a corner and walked down the hall, his eyes on the floor in front of him, his mind on all the little things that pissed his mother off. Now that he was thinking about it he could almost _hear_ her barking regal orders at him.

_"Don't slouch, it makes you look lazy!" "Don't spit, it makes you seem boorish!" "Don't slurp, it's disgusting" "For Merlin's sake, don't eat so much, you'll get fat!" _And his personal favorite. _"DAMMIT, Blaise, stop cursing!"_

He smiled a bit at this, and almost failed to notice he was about to walk into Vincent Crabbe, who had much in common with a brick wall including size, density, and IQ. Blaise looked up as he halted, and then took three steps back, noting that Pansy Parkinson and her pet rock were standing directly between him and the entrance to the Slytherin common room.

Seeing his way thus blocked, Blaise decided to impart some wisdom on the two beings in his way. "You know," he remarked, casual as ever, "If anyone decides to leave the common room, heaven forbid, that wall is going to smash into you." He smiled and nodded at Crabbe. The wall seemed to almost shudder in disgust at the thought of coming into contact with that particular Slytherin sixth year.

Crabbe frowned and stayed put. Pansy ignored Blaise completely. "What did you tell them?" she asked, preferring to hack her way straight through the bushes rather than beating around them.

Blaise crossed his arms. "Well," he replied, "That was certainly subversive."

"This generation doesn't put up with any of that cloak and dagger bullshit," Crabbe said, in what Blaise supposed was meant to be a derisive tone.

"Hadn't noticed," Blaise muttered in response, an absent smile decorating his face.

"That stuff is too old fashioned," Pansy explained, in an almost futile attempt at covering for Crabbe. _His_ face had turned into a blotchy red mess of confusion and anger at being confused. "It just doesn't work in today's world," she continued, apparently trying to show up Blaise for Blaise's own good.

Blaise decided that he really didn't feel like acting in his own best interest at the moment. "Have you tried it?" he quipped, absently again.

Neither Pansy nor Crabbe deigned to answer. Pansy, because she was shaking her head at him almost sorrowfully, and Crabbe, because his face now resembled a tomato and his mouth was too set in an outraged frown for him to be able to squeeze out any words. Pansy just repeated her original question. "What did you tell them?"

Blaise shrugged, quashing memories of his mother telling him it made him look like a simpleton. He shrugged again, just to spite them and clear his head. Ignoring Pansy's suspicious expression (that sort of looked like someone had stuffed three lemons in her mouth, thanks to the odd combination of puffed out cheeks and sour glares), he said, vacantly, "You know, I'd really like to know what you know first."

Crabbe cracked his knuckles and bared his teeth. _"Subtle,"_ Blaise thought, _"Very subtle."_ He could almost _guess_ what was coming next. Crabbe didn't disappoint. "I'm thinkin' we don't have to tell you what we know."

"Li-ar, li-ar," Blaise sang, shaking his head and wondering who exactly had taught Crabbe how to talk like a _thug_. Pansy's pet rock's eyebrows drew together (the glower was the only thing that made the expression decidedly un-Gryffindor) at this response. Blaise felt it'd be against his best interest to elaborate, so, feeling suicidal at the moment, he decided the sporting thing to do would be to, well, elaborate. "You said you were thinking," he clarified, while Crabbe snarled. "And, well, besides the fact that we both know you're basically incapable of forming any sort of coherent thought on your own," he went on, deliberately ignoring the imminent danger he was in as steam seemed to pour forth from Crabbe's flared nostrils. "You obviously weren't—thinking, that is, don't look so confused—because if you _were_ you'd know that I'd be less apt to tell you anything true if you decided to use me as your new, squishy punching bag.

"And besides," he continued, "Something like that would certainly make me want to run off to old Dumbly-dorus and tell him things I would probably never have told him without your kind prompting."

But, of course these threats had little impact on Crabbe. He hadn't yet developed the higher-thinking capability of overcoming his anger for his own good. He kept snarling and rubbing his fists together, looking like a bull about to charge. Blaise kept expecting him to stomp the ground and then run at him head first, cracking poor Blaise's ribs by finally putting that incredibly thick skull of his to good use.

Blaise's only saving grace appeared to be Pansy. Her pet rock seemed to be awaiting a signal that never came. _She_ had the brains to sigh in defeat and ask, "Why do you have to be so bloody smart?"

"It comes and it goes," was the smart-ass reply he chose. It did well in covering up his relief. If either of them had seen through it he'd probably have been pummeled on the spot.

"All right," Parkinson said, "We'll talk in your dormitory."

"Wait," Crabbe argued, putting a meaty hand on Pansy's shoulder. Blaise didn't fail to catch the disgusted look on her face and almost felt sorry for the blob, who obviously hadn't learned to carry his weight gracefully like Goyle now did. "We're not going to beat him up? We're actually going to tell him things?"

Any fuzzy feelings of sympathy Blaise might've had toward the boy evaporated in the heat of that red face. He crossed his arms, his expression dour as he glared at Pansy.

"No," Pansy said, her return glance at Blaise was almost apologetic. "We're not going to beat him up."

"Why not?" Crabbe whined, sounding for all the world like a kid who's woken up on Christmas to discover a lump of coal in his stocking. Or like a chimpanzee that _really_ wanted to crack that wounded chimpanzee's skull open and pull out its brains. Blaise was increasingly less enthused about the subject of this conversation. He didn't much care for chimpanzees.

"Didn't you hear what he said?" Pansy asked, moving away from Crabbe so that his hand fell off her shoulder.

"I heard a lot of bullshit is what I heard," Crabbe argued.

"He'll go to Dumbledore!" Pansy exclaimed in a sort of odd whisper-shout.

"So why do you want to tell him _more_ things?" Crabbe asked. Blaise almost applauded this small bit of logic coming from the brick wall. They normally weren't so intelligent.

"Because it won't matter!" Pansy exclaimed, whisper-shouting again. "He's Draco's _cousin_, for Merlin's sake. He already knows enough about both of us to get us life sentences in Azkaban."

Blaise felt a bit left out, so he added a "She's right you know."

"Then maybe we should just kill him," Crabbe said, the right corner of his mouth turning up in a gruesome smirk.

"We can't!" another harsh whisper, "Are you insane? They're already suspicious of us because Draco's gone missing."

Blaise definitely didn't like the way this conversation was going. "Oh, but you'd kill me otherwise, is that it?"

Pansy didn't answer, but Crabbe growled, "In a heartbeat."

"And Draco?" Blaise asked, angry all of a sudden, "I suppose you killed him too? And Granger?" Of course he didn't like his cousin much, or Granger either, but family was family was family, and he _was_ a Slytherin. Family was really the only Slytherin excuse for outrage. Well, family and Gryffies. You could always be mad at Gryffies.

Pansy was shaking her head violently. "No!" she exclaimed, loudly, before lowering her voice back to the whisper-shout. "We didn't, I swear. We don't know what happened to them, all right?" she implored. "Let's just go to your dormitory and I'll tell you what I know and maybe you can figure this out, ok?"

"Hold on," Blaise said, "You actually don't know what happened to them?"

Pansy shook her head. "No, can we just talk about it in the dorm?"

Blaise thought it best to cede this one and so said, "Fine." He lifted an arm toward the blank wall behind the Brick Wall. "Lead the way," he paused. "And if you don't mind, could you leave your pet rock behind?"

Crabbe bridled at this, but Pansy interrupted saying, "It's fine," softly to him and he calmed down.

Then she and Blaise said the password and stepped through the wall together. "You should really be careful about what you say to him," Pansy warned. "He doesn't like to be called names."

"You're right, it was silly of me to call him a rock. Rock implies mediocre size. Boulder would've been more accurate."

Pansy looked at him frankly. "You're bloody insane," she stated.

"So glad you noticed."

In Gryffindor tower, Harry Potter sprang up in bed, his hands flying to his forehead.

Warm, but not abnormally so.

Eyebrows drawing together in concern (this was the Gryffindor forehead), he jumped out of his bed, as quietly as he could and grabbed his invisibility cloak.

If he wasn't mistaken, something was horribly wrong...

**_

* * *

end notes: __reviews are always appreciated._**


	6. seven : seeking

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

_seeking_

****

_November 11, 1942_

* * *

Hermione walked through the Slytherin common room in an almost delirious trance, taking things in without processing them. Her eyes flitted from one bit of superfluous finery to the next, drinking in the elegant greens, silvers, and deep browns of the furnishings. Almost like an enchanted forest, frozen and transplanted underground, converted into this orderly set of sofas and desks and lush curtains. 

Names came to her ears, vision supplying the accompanying faces. Elaina Goyle, Eris Daw. Like the bird? Yes. There was also a Nadia Rook, although she wasn't in the common room. Off in Parliament she was. Did you get that? No? Nonetheless, speaking of collective nouns— Ah, yes, a group of rooks is a parliament, I'd forgotten! –_speaking of collective nouns_ does the new girl—Harmony?—Harmony, does she know a group of Gryffindors is a gaggle. Like geese? Of course, what else?

And on and on. Sensory input went straight to her internal databanks to be analyzed later, of course, of course, but for now she was very tired. Very tired, and she'd done so many very foolish things today starting with heading off after that scream, not realizing the difference between an Amias and a Draco Malfoy, not realizing she'd fallen back in time until meeting with Dippet, and that whole business with her scarf and tie being Gryffindor. Thank God for Amias. Or perhaps not.

Her new name was Harmony. Draco had kept his, not having thought to offer a fake one. Dippet had forced this one on her. _Harmony_. It was a horrible name, at least for her. She supposed it fit on four year olds and altruists and people who wore pink and drew hearts and rainbows in their spare time. _Harmony_. It was almost a worse name than _Hermione_, but at least _Hermione_ was hers. _Harmony_ belonged to someone else and the name didn't fit her. _Hermione_ though ungainly and just slightly less embarrassing than, say, _Draco__, Eris, Minerva, Albus, Amias, _or _Kerstan_, was _hers_. It was long, it was difficult to pronounce, but it was pretty enough when you got all the syllables in the right order. Which was why she'd always hated nicknames. Her name only fit her in its entirety. The ungainly prettiness, the complication only showed through when all the syllables were pronounced properly.

Names, names, names. Andrew Crow, a chaser. Crow, Rook, Daw, it's a wonder they don't call a group of Slytherins a murder. They do? No. Conspiracy. A group of Slytherins is a conspiracy. But a group of ravens is a conspiracy, shouldn't conspiracy be a group of Ravenclaws? No, they're like owls. Owls? Yes. But what do you call a pack of owls? A flight? I don't think so. But it fits, they are so little on earth. All right. A group of Ravenclaws is a flight. Though that might imply that they're flighty, which, as you know...

More and more meaningless babble filtered through her brain, more names, but no more faces to go with them. Just names being mentioned. Members of the Quidditch team. Hermione thought she should go to the dormitories, thought she should've gone a while ago, but she stayed, ears pricked unconsciously, waiting to hear a name that hadn't been mentioned yet, the only one she was familiar with.

...be easier if we just called a group of Slytherins a murder and let the Ravenclaws have their conspiracy. Murder. Murder. Murder has such negative connotations, besides it wasn't a Slytherin who killed Myrtle; that was a Gryffindor. _It wasn't._ Hagrid, remember? Dumpy, doltish half-giant? Opened the Chamber of Secrets, by accident probably. Flappy awkward geese, teeth always sharper than you'd think. If it was an accident it was manslaughter. _But it wasn't an accident_. Hagrid couldn't have murdered anyone, he's too stupid to premeditate. _Tom Riddle isn't._

She had to get away from the noise and _think_. Although it wasn't really noise because everyone spoke so softly. But the voices, humming along at a low murmur, reverberating through the common room, were like white noise and the more any of them spoke the more tired she felt, the farther she drifted away. She couldn't keep track of what they were saying anymore. Gaggle, conspiracy, _murder_. Over and over. Something about Quidditch now? The professional leagues are suspended, because of the war. War? I thought Grindelwald was dead? Not _that_ war, the muggle war. The muggles are having a war? Yes, Terr, it's only been going on for _three years_. Well why would I know anything about a _muggle_ war? Don't you remember? What? Two years ago they were dropping _bombs_. What's a bomb? An explosive. Where were they dropping them? London. Why were they dropping bombs on London? Because there's a _war_. I didn't see any bombsYou dolt, that's because it's a _muggle_ war. When will the professional leagues start up again? They've been out for _years_. When it's over. Eris, you live in muggle London, did _you _see any bombs? _Yes_. When? _Shut up_. But we were home almost all year two years ago, and I was in London and I didn't see any—

"Shut up!" the shout woke Hermione up and brought attention from entire room. For a moment, she thought the penetrating gazes were directed at her, she touched her throat lightly. Had she spoken? She didn't think so. She'd thought the words, but it was someone else's shout.

A younger boy, Hermione suspected it was a third year, was virtually cowering in an armchair positioned directly across from one of the couches. That was where the shout had come from, a girl with a snake wrapped around her neck. It took only a moment for Hermione to get the names. The boy was Terrence Goyle, Elaina's young cousin, and the girl was Eris, who'd been giggling so much at Draco's jokes Hermione thought the poor girls head would float off her shoulders and get caught on a chandelier. She wasn't giggling any more, though.

She was glaring at Terrence. "These things are so unpleasant, Terr, best not to think about them."

"A-all right," stuttered Terrence.

Eris ignored him and turned back to Draco.

Seeing that no one else was going to start shouting, the other Slytherins turned away and started whispering madly among themselves. Draco started up an anecdotal about two blithering idiots named "Larry" and "Don". Hermione decided it was time for her to leave. She'd been so dazed, so afraid of meeting Tom Riddle, she'd almost forgotten she was smack dab in the middle of World War II. _She _knew it would end in two years, but _they _didn't. And besides that, two years was a long time.

No matter. Even though History wasn't her strong suit, she knew that the Allies would win, Hitler would die, and the world would go on spinning just as it always had. Britain would never be taken over. From what she'd gathered, Eris was a halfblood. Lots of sixth year Slytherins were halfbloods. Fine, they had a right to be afraid.

"I think I need to rest for a while," she said softly.

"Of course," Elaina said, "I can imagine moving to a new school might be tiring. Especially across 'war-torn' lands. The girls' dormitories are on the left. The sixth year girls are in the third door on the right. I saw house elves dragging up a trunk earlier, so I think your bed is probably the one on the far right."

"Thank you," Hermione replied. Elaina shrugged.

She stood up and walked toward the staircase on the left. No one paid her any attention as she made her way down the steps to the Slytherin girls' dormitories. Her feet padded softly on the green carpet as she walked down the well-lit hallway counting doors. She turned to the right as she reached the third one and twisted the knob, pushing the door open.

The sight that greeted her was unfamiliar. Four sets of forest green curtains were apparently closed around beds. Their tracks were rounded at the ends, and each was topped with a triangular cover to block the ceiling. Above Hermione, burnished silver chandeliers held dozens of candles ensconced in emerald flame-shaped holders. Their flickering light cast an eerie green glow across the room. Hermione suppressed a shudder as she made her way to the bed on the far right.

Her curtain was pulled back to reveal a bed of the same deep red brown she'd seen in some of the furniture downstairs. The wood gave off a pleasant scent, although she couldn't quite put her finger on what it was. Like an oddly nice mix of pine and apples. Inhaling it deeply, she walked around her little area, opening her set of drawers and glancing inside to find them all empty. She left the drawers and wandered toward the end of her bed, where a large, dusty trunk sat.

As she lifted the lid, she gave herself time to think about her situation more clearly. It was 1942. In the muggle world, Germany occupied France. In two years, the Allies would launch an assault on Normandy and proceed to liberate Western Europe. In three, the Americans would drop the first atomic bomb on Japan. But that wouldn't be for years. _Right now_ it was 1942. In the wizarding world, halfblood and muggleborn French witches and wizards and even some purebloods had left the country. Beauxbaton had closed temporarily, just as Hogwarts had closed temporarily in 1940 because of the double threat of Grindelwald and the War. Then Dumbledore had chased off Grindelwald, and the RAF had fought off the German planes and the school had reopened. This much she'd read in _Hogwarts: A History_. Well, at least the bit about Grindelwald. The book didn't deal much in _muggle_ history it only said that there had been a war and didn't talk much about it. Except the refugees from Beauxbaton. She remembered that now.

Hogwarts had taken in students from Beauxbaton and integrated those who could speak English into the class schedules. Since a few teachers from Beauxbaton had also come to stay out the war in Hogwarts a few were given rooms in the dungeons where they could teach those students that did _not_ speak English. The British school had also opened its doors to students from Durmstrang, but for political reasons very few actually took the offer. _Very_ few. Had Draco known that when he'd told Kerstan they were from Durmstrang? Or had that been a fluke?

A neatly folded piece of parchment lay on a stack of folded robes. The words '_Ms. Rush'_ were written on it in flouncy script. Hermione almost didn't recognize the name, but after a moments hesitation she recalled and reached in to pick it out.

Being that it wasn't sealed, the letter opened easily and the poor Slythindor's eyes met with more flouncy prose. Trying to pick out actual letters from the inordinate amount of curlicues, she read:

_Dear Ms. Rush,_

_In this trunk you will find all the supplies needed for this term at Hogwarts. I am quite sure you will be able to pay back the school for its expenses at a later date. The bill will be sent on to your former/future teachers to be paid at such a time as you can afford it._

_If you will see me tomorrow afternoon at 1:00pm we can work out which classes you should be taking and get you a proper schedule. Needed textbooks will also be provided at the time._

_Sincerely,_

_Headmaster Armando Dippet_

_Hogwarts__ School__ of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_P.S. Do not forget to exercise the utmost discretion._

Hermione set aside the mercifully short letter and looked under the robes to find a cauldron, several rolls of parchment, quills, ink, a bag, and, compared to hers, a very much outdated copy of _Hogwarts: A History_. Hermione already knew which classes she was taking, and could list them in alphabetical order: Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, Astronomy, Care of Magical Creatures, Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, History of Magic, Potions, and Transfiguration. Those were, basically, all the classes she'd been taking up till sixth year. She was among a group of undecided students who hadn't dropped any old classes or taken up any new ones.

It was too early for her to decide what, exactly she wanted to do with her life. She'd always like mathematics, because there was always a definite solution to be reached if you did enough reasoning. So perhaps she might want to do something in the Arithmantic profession? Study it? Teach it? Defense Against the Dark Arts was mandatory now that Voldemort was back, and even if it wasn't she wouldn't have dropped it anyway—it was too useful. She hadn't had the heart to give up Care of Magical Creatures. Charms and Transfiguration were also ultimately useful and Herbology and Potions were, she supposed, sort of like sciences, and Hermione liked sciences and logic, so she might consider a career in either. And while she didn't quite care for History of Magic, not much liking history at all, her father thought it was of the utmost importance, whether or not his daughter believed it was immediately relevant, and so had encouraged her to continue the class.

And now that she was in the past, she supposed she'd have to keep the same schedule and hope there weren't too many advances made in the wizarding world between 1942 and 1996. She closed the trunk and stood up, clapping her hands to get off the dust. Sighing, she made her way over toward the window next to the head of her bed and was halfway there before realizing that there was a _window_ next to her bed.

Light poured from it, illuminating her section of the rather large dormitory. She stared, almost dumbstruck. "_Isn't Slytherin underground?_" she thought, as she advanced toward it. She was sure the Slytherin area _was_ underground. After having followed Amias down a million and one steps to get here, there was no doubt in her mind that the common room and dormitories were subterranean. So why the window? _"Magic, of course_," she answered herself, almost rolling her eyes at her momentary lapse of thought. Closing the distance between herself and the "window", she reached out to thrust her palm out the window.

Instead of meeting with fresh air, the underside of her hand slapped against cold, hard rock. She pulled it back and rubbed the heel of it.

"We're the only underground house, so they try to console us with fake windows and fake sunlight."

Hermione whirled around at this sudden interruption and came face to face with a girl, slightly taller than herself, with dark hair and a gaunt face. Sharp, narrow eyes peered at Hermione from beneath owlishly round glasses. The tone the girl's statement had been delivered in was pragmatic, rather than facetious or ironic. A mere statement of cold facts. In spite of herself, Hermione stared.

"You're Harmony," the other girl declared. "The Durmstrang 'transfer', which I suppose is a pretty word for 'refugee'. You speak English, don't you?"

"Yes," replied Hermione, a bit annoyed at the other girl's rudeness. Noticing her hand was still up, she lowered it and stuffed it into one of her pockets. "Who are you?"

"Nadia Rook," the girl replied. Hermione was beginning to feel a bit uncomfortable under that steadily neutral gaze. Like a bug under a microscope. "I'm the only other Slytherin sixth year girl besides Eris and the only pureblood," she continued with that same flat pragmatism. "The other three were halfbloods, but Peggie is now a permanent resident of St. Mungo's, Laura killed herself, and Abigail—that's her bed you've got now—she and her family were executed by Grindelwald." Hermione's eyes widened as Nadia continued in the same emotionless monotone, "I suppose it was timely, though, they needed room for the Beauxbaton 'transfers'. They've got the two beds to the left of yours, they're Sofia and Adele, although they spend most of their time in Gryffindor."

Hermione couldn't help but stare goggle eyed as her mouth opened slightly. A few incoherent syllables fell from her lips, before she managed to press them together. Nadia pursed her lips, doing a very good impression of an angry Minerva McGonagall and said, "I don't suppose you're a pureblood are you?" Hermione kept her mouth shut and after a few moments Nadia continued. "It doesn't matter. Welcome to Slytherin," although, to Hermione, she didn't sound at all welcoming. "We always keep those curtains closed. The light is annoying." And with that, she walked away.

Numbly, Hermione walked back to her "window" and pulled the drapes shut. Now the dormitory was cast into that same eerie green twilight she'd experienced when she'd first come in. Killing another shudder, she pulled off her shoes and flopped onto her bed. She propped her pillow up against the headboard, and tilted her head back, staring at the green canopy above and wondering, not for the first time, how a day that was meant to be fairly simple had stretched on for so long and gotten so complicated along the way.

Realizing that before she dozed off she'd better close the curtains around her area, she got up reluctantly and did just that, unsurprised to find that her fingers brushed against soft velvet as she drew them around. Her sheets, she'd noticed, were silk of a sort of silvery opalescent color. Task done, Hermione shuffled back to her bed and threw herself on it, falling asleep just a few seconds after her face hit the mattress.

Her last thoughts before she lost consciousness were these:

_"Abigail—that's her bed you've got now—she and her family were executed by Grindelwald."_

_And I haven't even seen Tom Riddle yet._

* * *

Draco hadn't known much more about "the muggle war" than Terrence did. But Hermione might've been surprised to find out that he _had_, in fact, read _Hogwarts: A History_ and did, in fact, know that there were many Beauxbaton students here and only about three who were legitimately from Durmstran. Whether he'd had these facts in his conscious mind when he'd told Kerstan he was a Durmstrang transfer was debatable. But he did know that in the early 40s, both Beauxbaton and Durmstrang had closed due to the invasion of some insane dictator. He wasn't exactly clear on the particulars, but that didn't matter at the moment. He _was_ living it, after all. 

In any case, it had taken Eris all of half a second to calm down after her little outburst. Easy to anger and, apparently, just as easy to forgive and forget, sort of like a puppy. After Hermione left, she'd patted Terrence on the head, hugged him, and apologized profusely. By some miracle the boy managed to refrain from bawling. And once that was done, she laughed or giggled or smirked at all of Draco's stories about himself and "Larry" and "Don".

Now, she was staring at him in doe-eyed fascination. "So, this Larry was a seeker?" she asked. Draco nodded.

"So am I," he said, proudly. And before he could even blink, Amias was directly in his face.

"You are?" his grandfather asked, and more questions followed at an eager rapid fire pace before Draco could respond, "Are you really? A seeker? Are you any good?"

Leaning back to put some distance between himself and his now-obviously-insane-relative, Draco said, "Um...yes." And then, gaining confidence, "I was the best in my school before..." he fibbed, letting the sentence trail.

Amias nodded sympathetically. "But can you play? You're not emotionally damaged or anything, are you? And you're a permanent transfer, you're not going back to Durmstrang because you're not here because of the war, your friend is, but you're not, so you're permanent and you can play?"

Draco's eyes widened. Was this really the guy he'd been talking to earlier? He didn't think anyone could speak so quickly. "Yes, I can play."

"Thank Merlin's left foot!" Amias exclaimed. Draco tried to process the odd sentence. Merlin's left foot? But Amias was already starting up again. "We need a new seeker so badly, I'd sell my _kidney_ for an able player."

"Our team is doomed this year," Kerstan added. "A quarter of our team was killed or otherwise incapacitated by Grindelwald, being that most were sixth years and halfbloods. We only won last year, because two of our reserve chasers and our keeper were excellent even though our seeker was horrible. The Gryffindors mostly ran off to join the war, the eighteen and seventeen year olds, that is, so did some of the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, and a few of the halfbloods from those houses were wiped out by Grindelwald including sizable chunks of their teams," Kerstan shrugged here, "They hadn't trained their reserves well. But the transfers from Beauxbaton are playing this year, it's all part of the school's attempt to get us to take our minds off of all the gloomy aspects of our Hogwarts year, you know, get everyone so caught up in Quidditch that for a few minutes they can forget that everyone's dead or out soldiering somewhere. In any case, those Beauxbatons are pretty good, the seeker for Ravenclaw especially. And, as I said, our seeker's horrible."

"Horrible is an _understatement_," Elaina corrected. "Robbie couldn't catch a broomstick if it were floating toward him with all the speed of a tortoise on sedatives."

"And if we can't find a good seeker, we'll lose horribly," stated Amias, finally slowing down. "Are you sure you're good? And you can play? Do you _want_ to play?"

"I might be able to manage," Draco replied with a nonchalant shrug. It always did to contain your excitement. At least his father always said so.

"Wonderful!" Amias exclaimed, "We have practice tomorrow on the Quidditch pitch at one, we'll try you out then—"

"Although I don't see why," Elaina muttered, "He can't _possibly_ be worse than Robbie. You know we threw a book at him the other day, from an incredibly short distance, and not with all that much force either, and do you know what he did? He puffed out his chest and held his hands about a foot lower than it was going to fall—leaned forward while he did this, and it smacked him square on the head. He's an _idiot_."

"But he _does_ have such wonderful hair," Eris remarked offhandedly. "Although I think Draco's might be better," she said, reaching up to touch his hair. He tilted his head a bit toward her, to give her better access, deciding that if the pretty girl wanted to pet him he wasn't going to make a fuss about it. Even if she _was_, perhaps, a bit chubby for his taste. Her nose was a bit too round, her eyes were definitely too large for her short lashes, and she definitely could've been taller, but she was still, he decided, above average. Besides that she laughed at all his jokes and thought he was smart.

Not that he wanted to _date_ her or anything, but she was pretty enough to pet his hair. Lots of girls were and lots of girls did, although Draco really never understood it himself. He _knew_ his hair was soft, but they didn't know that until they touched it, and he didn't _think_ he looked like a dog...

In any case, the conversation had diverted away from them, Amias, Elaina, and Kerstan now talking about the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, with Terrence asking questions every now and again. Nobody was looking at Draco or Eris, and she seemed to be massaging his scalp. It was a remarkably soothing motion. Was this why his mother brushed her hair so often?

Glancing at Eris, he decided to chance it, and lay down on the couch with his head on her lap, figuring that if he went to sleep it'd be better in this position than sitting up. She didn't seem to mind, just looked at him with a sort of friendly platonic smile and went on massaging his head. Vaguely, he wondered if he could get Pansy to do this for him when he got back to his own time. Or maybe Sylvie the Ravenclaw.

Draco was so lulled that he didn't notice someone had entered the common room. Didn't notice how all eyes immediately flew to the door. Didn't notice as the new entrant strode purposefully toward the fireplace. Didn't notice, of course, until the fingers stopped moving in his hair and he turned right just in time to come face to face with someone's groin.

Closing his eyes, he looked straight up. Eris had started on his head again, but he was too awake to be soothed into sleepiness again. He saw, from an odd angle, a boy with black hair and blue eyes and about a million hairs in his left nostril. Draco thought he looked sort of like Blaise, only not. Then again, Draco wasn't really at a good angle...

"You stole my snake again," the boy stated flatly.

Draco felt very awkward. If he turned left, he'd be snuggling into Eris's crotch, and if he turned right he'd be staring into the other guy's crotch, and his current position gave him an excellent view of the insides of both Eris and the guy's nostrils. He fervently hoped this conversation wouldn't last long.

"I did not," Eris sounded something like a whiny toddler. "The evil thing snuck into my room and tried to strangle me this morning... like it always does, actually. It isn't _my_ fault that the 'genius' Tom Riddle can't keep track of his own stupid pet."

"I _could_ keep track of him," the guy, Tom Riddle? replied, "If someone didn't insist on _stealing_ him every day."

"I told you I didn't steal your stupid snake and I never _have_ stolen it and it's not my fault it's hell bent on _murdering_ me."

"If you didn't steal him than why are you so reluctant to give him back?" the guy countered.

Eris leaned forward then, Draco wasn't exactly in a position to see the look on her face. He was, on the other hand, in the perfect position to view other parts of her anatomy. He shut his eyes, aware that the entirety of the Slytherin house was probably watching him squirm between Eris and the guy. It was mildly humiliating. He wondered if he should get up and dismissed the thought. It was too late for that, they were closing over him. He should've noticed the guy coming.

'The guy', as Draco referred to him, was currently attempting to pull his snake from Eris's neck, choking her slightly with every attempt until she finally whacked his arm.

"Ouch," the guy muttered, pulling back and rubbing his injured arm. "You _are_ reluctant to give him back."

"I'm not!" Eris exclaimed. "I'm just 'reluctant' to be strangled to death due to your shoddy attempts at _getting_ it back."

Draco thought this might be his moment to escape, if he could but up fast enough... but he was too late. They were closing over him again. "Fine!" 'The guy' was now trying to unravel the snake from Eris's neck. A good plan, except that it didn't work. The thing wouldn't budge, and every time he tried to get it around it held on tighter, so that, once again, it was choking Eris.

She did the logical thing, and whacked him again.

"Stop hitting me," he protested.

"Then stop trying to kill me," she countered.

They both leaned back, and Draco decided that he would definitely get up _now_, when the guy pointed at him and asked, as though noticing him for the first time, "Who is this?"

"Our cousin, Draco," Kerstan answered. "Draco, that's Tom Riddle."

What he thought was, _That's_Tom Riddle? What he said, from his position on Eris's lap, looking up now as Tom Riddle glared back at him, was, "Hi." Tom Riddle, if that's who he really was, took a step back, still glaring. Draco took the opportunity to sit up and relocate himself to the far side of the couch.

"He just got here today," Kerstan added.

Now 'Tom Riddle' shifted his glare to Eris. "You're incredible," he stated, although the way he said it wasn't very complimentary.

Eris seemed either to mistake his meaning or ignore it. She looked flattered as she said, "Why, thank you for noticing."

But 'Riddle' wasn't paying attention to her any more. Snake forgotten for the moment, he was now looking at Amias. "How's your cheek?" he asked, "I hope it doesn't hurt too much, I really hadn't meant to—" he began apologetically.

"It's fine," Amias replied, cutting him off with a shake of his head. "No hard feelings."

"Are you sure?" 'Riddle' asked, still apologetic.

"Perfectly."

'Riddle' nodded at this before turning his attention back to his original pursuit. "My snake..."

"Is a menace to society," Eris said, tugging at her slithering necklace. "Murderous beast, I'll bet anything you _trained_ it to do this."

"I'll bet anything _you_ trained it to stay on your neck like that," 'Riddle' replied, pointing. "You're probably encouraging it right now."

Eris dropped her hands to her sides before throwing them up again in exasperation. "I quit!" she exclaimed. "Fine, you win, every night I sneak into your dormitory before you wake up, steal your snake, and then secretly train it to attempt to strangle me to death whenever you come near. I don't know why I do this. It must be because I'm insane," she concluded, her eyes narrow as she finished her short, sarcastic rant.

"I'm glad you can finally admit it," 'Riddle' replied with a smile. "Always knew there was something wrong with you."

Draco thought that Eris looked very much like she wanted to beat 'Tom Riddle' to death with a very spiky rolling pin, so that she could see bits of brain scatter across the floor before stomping on them in military issue combat boots. He knew it was cliché, but if looks could kill, than 'Tom's' sightless dead eyes would be watching Eris stomp little bits of his brain into mush.

Instead of pulling a very spiky rolling pin out from behind a couch cushion, she made a few sounds at the back of her throat. It seemed like she was going through all the vowels. "Ah... Eh... Ee... Oh... You..."

He smiled at her. It looked bright, what with his perfectly white teeth, but Draco felt something in his blood freeze. Something familiar about that smile, something about the way his face looked when he did it. What had they been calling him?

Finally, Eris found words. "You're a bastard, Tom, and I mean that both literally and figuratively, just so you know."

'Tom Riddle' winced and then replied, "Well, since you and Nagini seem to be getting along so well, I think I'll just leave you alone. He'll get sick of you sooner or later." And with that, he left, going down to the boys' dormitories on the right.

_Nagini_ Draco's head spun. So, _that_ was Tom Riddle.

He stopped and thought about that for a minute or two. Tom Riddle couldn't keep track of his snake? Tom Riddle said _Ouch_? Tom Riddle _whined_? Tom Riddle _winced_? Tom Riddle as in the "Muhahahahaa, I will one day grow up to be Voldemort and the Wizarding World will cower before me!" Tom Riddle? Who'd by now, if Draco had his dates right, opened the Chamber of Secrets, killed Moaning Myrtle, and framed Hagrid for it? Tom Riddle who was already now holding meetings with the Death Eaters of the future? Tom Riddle, whose closest supporters were already calling Voldemort?

_That _Tom Riddle? That was _that_ Tom Riddle?

Tom Riddle who could make a person's veins freeze and crack in fear with his mere _presence_. He was arguing over whether or not some bubble headed girl had stolen his _pet snake_?

Once his minute or two of thinking was over, he gave himself a nice conclusion:

_No fucking way._

Which, of course, led to a few more minutes of thinking. If _that_ Tom Riddle was nothing like the Voldemort he knew (except for that smile) there had to be a reason. So Draco thought up possible reasons. Like, perhaps Tom Riddle wasn't really acting on his own when he became Voldemort, maybe another wizard took control of his body. That was stupid. Ok. Maybe Tom Riddle was like a Dr. Jekyll-Mr. Hyde character. He was Voldemort when he was Mr. Hyde and Dr. Jekyll when he was Tom, and he achieved this by drinking a special brew... Ok. Maybe he was just schizophrenic, and by the time he became Voldemort the Mr. Hyde side had won? No? All right, then maybe he and Hermione hadn't gone back in time, maybe they'd gone to a whole different _dimension_.

That was even dumber than the body snatchers thought. So, maybe this Tom Riddle was exactly like the Voldemort he knew. Except this Tom Riddle was young and inevitably better looking because this Tom Riddle lacked scales. And if that were so, then maybe this Tom Riddle was acting harmless, so that dolts like Dumbledore would _think_ he was harmless, and possible dissenters in Slytherin would _think_ he was harmless, and then he could launch his plan to take over the world and it would be a complete surprise to everyone.

That last one made sense to him. Either that or he had to believe Voldemort was schizophrenic. Or under a lifelong Imperius that somehow enabled him to survive a backfired Avada.

Almost as though she knew what was going on in his head, Eris leaned close to him and whispered, "Stop thinking. I hate it when boys think." And patted him on the head again. That was sort of annoying. He gave her a 'look'. She furrowed her eyebrows in a decidedly Hufflepuff fashion. "I'm sorry," she said, "But I want you to talk to me. I like it when you talk, you're smart, you know, and I know thinking's part of being smart, but if you think too much you'll never talk to me and I..." she mumbled more nonsense and apologized again and in the end, he talked to her. He liked talking to her. Although that was mostly because she seemed to like listening to him, but no matter. Talking to her didn't stop him from thinking and he was determined to figure out his little conundrum before daybreak tomorrow.

* * *

In the sixth year boys' dormitory, _that_ Tom Riddle was sitting on his bed, hunched over a small book bound in what appeared to be some sort of leather. Well, if anyone had asked about it that's what he would've told them anyway. The pages were yellowed, but the tome was otherwise well preserved. And it should've been, since it hadn't seen the light of day in centuries. 

He scanned the straight-backed handwriting on the page and stopped at a paragraph midway through. He read from there on, eyes moving left to right, left to right, as he digested the information. Then he paused and frowned, retracing a sentence. He reread it and hissed softly to himself for a while, before closing the book and storing it in the virtually undetectable locked compartment of his trunk. He frowned again, and sat back on his bed.

Not good. But perhaps fixable? He looked at the curtains covering his false window, thoughtfully. Definitely fixable. A humorless smile edged its way onto his face, and he laid back on his bed. Fixable. And everything would still go exactly as planned.

**_

* * *

end_****_ notes: _**_reviews are always loved and appreciated_


	7. eight : on the pitch

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

_on the pitch_

****

_November 12, 1942 _

* * *

The aptly named Snitch was the Prize and the Prize was the Adversary and Draco was absolutely determined to catch it. 

Below him the practice game sped on, the participants unaware of the invisible struggle between Draco and his Prize. They concentrated on passing the quaffle, blocking, intercepting, swinging it through the goal hoops. They concentrated on dodging and hitting away the bludgers. They concentrated on protecting their goals. Below them the spectators watched, a few on the ground, a few on the stands. Their eyes, riveted on the action, wasted few glances on Draco and the Other, who hovered just a little above and far behind him. They watched the quaffle move, as the chasers—two to each team—worked in smooth tandem, passing it back and forth, getting closer and closer to the goal.

Draco's Prize was one that valued patience and action was much more interesting.

Patience was a trying virtue to learn, but Draco had almost mastered it in this form, for this game. He paid no attention to the movement below him, gave no mind to the spectators or the Other. It'd been a hard lesson and he'd been a horrid study but after that humiliating game, when Potter'd snatched the Prize from right under his ear, he'd been intent on learning. And though he had yet to beat Potter, he could beat anyone else. So long as he didn't want it so much. So long as the prize didn't become the Prize.

On that day it was the Prize and focus was key. His hands gripped his broomstick tightly—an old Comet of uncertain model that Amias had been almost unduly enthusiastic about—and his eyes scanned the pitch hawkishly. Twice now he'd almost gone after a far off and imagined sparkle. He was wound so tightly that had anyone been paying attention to him they might've feared for the safety of his broom. His eyes moved and he turned slightly, looking around, hunting. The game was nothing. The Prize was everything.

It was how teams with the best seekers on their rosters still managed to lose. Those seekers had learned, like Draco, to pay no attention to the game, to focus entirely on one simple objective. The rest of the world disappeared, being of minimal importance. The only thing that existed was the Prize. The score became utterly irrelevant.

Above him gray clouds approached, darkening the sky and heralding rain. The Other looked up at these clouds and frowned, figuring he'd better catch the snitch soon before it started raining. Wondering if maybe he could wait till it _did_ rain, and then swoop up the snitch, securing his place on the team and showing the would-be usurper his place. But no, that might be too risky. He might not be able to see the snitch in the rain, and then the practice would go on till morning and it'd be his fault. _Better to get it now_, he decided. As soon as he saw it, he'd catch it, and that would be that. His teammates would be happier if they could avoid getting soaked in what looked like a storm; it was already cold out.

He looked down at them for a while, watching them play. Amias faked a left against Andrew Crow and passed the quaffle to Cordi Lee. She caught it easily and moved higher, dodging a bludger sent her way by Jacob Isaac and making a beeline for the goal. Kerstan went to intercept her, but was cut off himself by the bludger that Ethan Isaac had redirected onto his path. Now Andrew had gotten himself in front of her, ready to help Jeanne Horowitz block the goal. Amias had, apparently, predicted this move, having set himself up beneath and to the left of Cordi. She passed the quaffle to him and he slung it through the hoop easily.

Meanwhile, the spectators looked to the sky apprehensively, _now_ giving their attention to Draco and the Other, hoping one of them would be able to snag the snitch before the rain started.

And Draco still searched for his Prize, noting the clouds only in passing. He felt a drop of water fall on his shoulder and ignored it. His eyes watered as the wind blew around him, blurring his vision. Quickly, he raised an arm to clear the moisture, dreading the result of a few lost seconds. The Other might see the snitch while he was occupied. The Other might catch it and win and Draco would be humiliated. _"Robbie couldn't catch a broomstick if it were floating toward him with all the speed of a turtle on sedatives." " I'd sell my kidney for an able player." "Our seeker's horrible." "Are you any good?" _Yes, he was. But the comments kept coming back to haunt him, threatening total mortification if he actually _lost_.

His hand returned to the broom. The grip felt a bit odd, and he realized vaguely that his palms were sweaty. Sweaty palms weren't good. Sweaty palms _slipped_. But he couldn't think about that. Relief flooded him as he realized that the Other hadn't gotten the Prize. The Other was watching the game, unfocused, paying little attention to the search for the snitch and...

Wait... _THERE!_

Bells and whistles went off in his head, urging him on, _there, there, THERE, go, go, GO! _Except he couldn't. The Prize. The ball, the snitch. That iniquitous, sadistic, Adversary. The worst of all enemies had placed itself not five centimeters from the Other's right arm.

_Of bloody course_, Draco thought angrily, his earlier concentration shattered into dismay. _But,_ he realized slowly, _Robbie's not paying attention..._ And he wasn't. Eyes still fixed on the game, Robert James hadn't noticed the tiny golden dot floating next to his arm. Draco threw a silent party in his head as he thought carefully about his next course of action, hoping against hope that the snitch stayed where it was long enough, hoping that Robbie stayed oblivious long enough...

Easing his broom into motion, he cast a sideways glance in Robbie's direction, wondering if Robbie was suspicious of the movement. He needn't have worried: Robbie was oblivious. And he remained so as Draco approached him in a slow, steady, ambling manner. _I haven't seen the snitch_, Draco thought, _I'm just bored and looking around_. He hoped that was what he projected—and it probably was. Robbie didn't notice him at all. Couldn't see that Draco was getting closer by the second. Couldn't see that the snitch was floating right next to his arm.

Within a minute, Draco was in charging distance. He could see the snitch, he could see Robbie. Neither of them were moving much. This was his chance, his golden window of opportunity. And he took it before he even thought about it.

_Now_ Robbie noticed him, kicking back higher into the air to avoid Draco's mad dash for the snitch. Still not noticing it, his sole concern was staying alive—and being pissed off at Draco, but for Robbie they were similar enough to be the same thing.

Time seemed to come to a halt. The broomsticks and their riders hung inert meters and meters and meters above the ground. Draco stared at his left hand, eyes wide, transfixed as his fingers seemed to peel away of their own accord, opening to reveal the Prize resting on his palm. His mind was a blank, he was at a loss for words. In fact, as he stared at the Prize he was almost so amazed that he thought he might never speak again. But words came, slowly. He noticed Robbie was yelling at him angrily, accusing him of attempted murder. That didn't matter a bit. Draco held his hand out in an almost childlike manner, a grin split his face as he said, softly, simply, in awe, "I caught it."

Above him, the sky opened.

* * *

"Franz Kafka published only seven works while he was alive and wanted his unpublished works to be destroyed after he died." 

Hermione paused in her march to the common room exit and looked to the left. Eris was sitting on her couch, watching Hermione with contempt over the top edge of a relatively thin book. The Gryffindor only took about two seconds to try to place the statement, her mind being on the time and how it was running out. She was supposed to see the Headmaster at one o' clock. It was now somewhere around twelve fifty. Depending on the staircases it would normally take about five minutes to reach the office, being that she still wasn't sure how to get _anywhere_ from the Slytherin common room, and she'd added in another five minutes as emergency time in case she got lost or held up for a minute somewhere because of individuals trapped in trick stairs and the like. She'd already overslept and hurried to get dressed, so she was just exactly on schedule and she hadn't accounted for Eris-related-delays in her contingency timing...

Dismissal came quickly. Given the disdainful glance she was receiving, the small size of the book, the oddness of the statement, and the fact that Eris was a general ditz. _She's rattling off random facts to make herself look smart, _Hermione thought, vaguely, recalling how one of her cousins had complained incessantly about that sort of thing one summer, saying it was the sort of utter silliness that only an – but Eris was still staring at her, that almost-expectant disdain still covering her face, the snake around her neck lifting its head and regarding Hermione with nearly the same expression.

"That's nice," Hermione replied with a short nod, before quickening her exit. _That's nice and it's silly_, she thought, _snakes don't express disdain._

The corridors outside the common room were musty and oppressive. Hermione didn't yet know this, but the condition of those corridors was an always-accurate indication of the weather. Musty corridors meant coming rain, freezing corridors meant snow, and if it was hot outside they baked. The Slytherins _could_ have adjusted the outside environment the way they did the inside, but those capable had decided that their weather meter was too valuable. Later Slytherins, of course, departed from this school of thought and always kept their corridors immaculate and cool.

The stone walls always looked damp and were always dry to the touch. The corridors themselves were shadowy at all hours of the day, the only lighting coming from widely spaced sconces nailed to the walls. The glass covering them was thick, frosted dark and bore etchings of snakes as decorations. Hermione didn't notice any of this except the darkness. The mustiness weighed on her and her nostrils flinched at imagined smells of decay. The corridors did not have the same aged friendliness that the library evoked. Instead they seemed like places people went to die miserably and Hermione felt miserable walking through them.

She half-bolted up the stairs, sucking in huge breaths of oxygen as she went. Once in the lighter upstairs corridors, she paused to adjust the strap on her book-bag nervously and wondered if there was any way she could avoid that set of tunnels in the future. Maybe she could ask Dippet to transfer her somewhere _above _ground. With a slight nod at this wonderful idea, she continued speed walking toward the Headmaster's office. At the rate she was going she'd get there about five minutes early, but as her mother'd drummed into her time and again: "Early is on time; on time is late."

Although she did remember with discomfort that she _would_ have been late if Nadia hadn't woken her up for lunch. Checking her watch, Hermione took a second to thank Merlin for Nadia. In her hurry, she failed to see the dark haired blue-eyed boy walking in the opposite direction and _he_ noticed her hair more than he did her, taking care to avoid it. If she _had_ noticed, she might've thought it funny later that the first time she was ever near Tom Riddle, he was heading toward the Slytherin dorms and she was going toward Gryffindor. But she didn't.

She _did_ notice the gargoyle that marked the entrance to the Headmaster's office. Once again, she checked her watch as she hurried toward it. Then she said the password, took some time to catch her breath on the stairs, and strode up calmly.

"Professor?" she called, her voice soft as she pushed open the door, hoping to find a calmer, more reasonable serious man than the one she'd met the day before.

He was juggling chocolate frogs. One of them croaked and vaulted over her left shoulder. She stared.

"Oh, hello," he replied. The other two frogs took the opportunity to escape, both hopping around Hermione's feet, leaving tiny puddles of melted chocolate as they went. "You're early," he paused to look at his empty hands wide-eyed. He seemed almost surprised there was nothing in them. Hermione shook her head slightly and sat down quietly. After a moment, Armando Dippet looked up at her and flashed a broad smile. "Did you know that Franz Kafka published only seven works while he was alive and wanted his unpublished works to be destroyed after he died?"

A lesser person might've fainted.

* * *

Dinner was loud. 

Hermione sat, uncomfortable between Elaina and Eris. Nadia was on Eris's right with Kerstan sitting opposite. An empty seat across from Eris, Draco next to that and in front of Hermione. Amias opposite Elaina and beyond them the Slytherin Quidditch team. Past Eris were other acquaintances in sixth and seventh year, notably Eliot Flint and Ardennes Snape, but Hermione was two seats away from _them_ and thus unable to hear any part of their conversation.

Not that she'd have been able to hear them even if they were sitting next to her and shouting in her ear. She winced as the Quidditch team let out another loud HURRAH! Draco was, apparently, the hero, the savior sent from Durmstrang to make the season victorious for Slytherin.

It hadn't made any sense to her at first, that Draco should be the star of the show and seated so far away from his new teammates. Hadn't made any sense till she realized that people had been taking their seats automatically—almost as if they were assigned. And there did seem to be some sort of order there that Hermione and Draco were intruding on. That empty seat across from Eris stayed empty. Kerstan hadn't even tried to take it, which made no sense since he must've wanted to be closer to the team.

That fact raised questions about who the seat was _for_. Hermione had an idea, of course. Not one that she liked much, but it was a supposition. Completely unfounded, though, none of her new "friends" had ever mentioned being friends with someone named Tom Riddle. In all the conversations she'd overheard she hadn't heard his name dropped once. Not a "Tom" not a "Thomas" not a "Riddle". Her supposition was pure and simple paranoia. There was nothing that said that just because she went back in time to the period when Voldemort was at Hogwarts she had to fall in with his specific group of friends. If he had any friends, which was highly unlikely.

Young Dark Lords were probably extremely antisocial. These people would probably tease him about his glasses or something until he proved he was Slytherin's heir and they shut up. But just because they shut up didn't mean that they had to _be friends_ with the nerd. Because that's what Tom Riddle probably was. He was brilliant and he got incredibly good grades and he was obviously disturbed enough to be a future Dark Lord. His fellow students probably avoided him like the Plague when they weren't attending secret Death Eater meetings. In fact, his face was probably as riddled with acne as Hermione's had been that one summer she'd had a horrible break out just before she was supposed to meet Harry and Ron at the Burrow and been so desperate that she'd actually resorted to using egg—

"Tom, if you don't sit down quick your dish will run away with your spoon and you'll be left eating with your fingers off the table like a real knight of old."

"Nursery rhymes are exactly your level, but I think history might be a bit beyond you." came the reply as the newcomer took his seat.

It was all Hermione could do to keep her heart from exploding in shock. Black hair, blue eyes, not extremely tall, but not short either. Definitely no acne. No glasses either. Or braces. In fact, he was quite, well, _good-looking_. On the skinny side, yes. Although not exactly _lanky_. Of course, just because this person happened to be called "Tom" that didn't mean he was necessarily Tom _Riddle_. No matter how well he fit the description.

"Oh that's right!" Elaina exclaimed from next to her. It was just then that Hermione noticed the Quidditch team had gone silent. "You haven't met him yet. Tom, this is Harmony Rush. Harmony, that's Tom Riddle. He's bloody brilliant, you know. And late for everything."

"Not _everything_," he protested lightly as he speared a piece of chopped celery with his fork and lifted it a little way off his plate, as though he were examining it from a distance.

"You'll probably be late for your own funeral," Amias told him.

"I can only hope," Tom replied with a small smile before he nodded toward Hermione and said, "Nice to meet you." He shook the celery off and went for a carrot instead.

Hermione heard herself say "Same here" although she honestly couldn't remember vocalizing it. If she had been vocalizing what she'd been thinking, there wouldn't have been words. There would've been a "Huh, wha, uh?" He couldn't be Voldemort. He was too... polite and... nice. Which, of course, meant, he wasn't oozing evil. Or oozing at all in that case.

And as soon as the carrot entered his mouth, the volume level soared again, as though the entirety of the Slytherin house waited for him to take a bite before daring to make any sort of noise. All right, fine. So he was nice and polite, but also scary. That made sense. He could be Voldemort.

Then she heard it. There was no way she could possibly not have, since he said it loud enough for at least a two-person radius to catch. She heard it; Draco heard it, so did Elaina and Amias and Nadia and Kerstan and whoever sat next to the two of them. And most importantly Eris, who it was directed at. "You should be careful about eating so much, if you get any heavier you might break your chair and the floor _is_ very uncomfortable."

Reflexively, Hermione turned to look at Eris as did everyone else who heard. The girl looked like... Hermione scrambled for an analogy, but the only one she could think of was the Pillsbury Doughboy. Eris's build was sort of what the Pillsbury Doughboy's would be if he went on a successful diet. Relatively thin, but still... mushy. With big thighs and a large snake around its neck. Not _fat_, really, although you couldn't see her bones. Definitely a far cry from being able to break the chairs they sat on. With her weight and height she'd need _at least_ a hundred and fifty pounds more. Not that she seemed to be aware of the fact at the moment. She dropped her fork, which appeared to have some chicken on it, and glared at Tom.

Hermione would've been lying if she hadn't said she took _some_ small pleasure at seeing the other girl upset. But she would've been telling the truth if she said it was a very small, miniscule, even _microscopic_ amount. Just enough to pay back the sixty seconds during her meeting with Dippet when she'd had to listen to remarks about how "bright" Eris was even though she was, and had been for her entire Hogwarts career, apparently, _barely_ passing her classes.

"Well," Eris replied as she lifted her plate carefully, almost exactly a second after Tom had let his insult fly. "_You _should really eat more, if you don't you might blow away in the next strong wind. I've seen you trying to walk around the lake; it's absolutely _terr_ifying," she said, cramming more fake concern into her voice than Hermione would've thought possible and offering a falsely kind smile to accompany it. With that, she stood up and dumped her food onto his plate before setting hers down neatly and walking away, the snake around her neck hissing madly as she went.

She didn't get far before she was stopped by calls from a group of Ravenclaws, and she went to sit with them. Hermione saw them offering her some of their food as she managed to smile and look like she was about to cry both at the same time. Tom didn't see any of this, his back was to the Ravenclaws, but he must've heard them calling her over, since the table had gone silent again when Eris stood up. He didn't seem to care much, though. He didn't shrug or raise an eyebrow or do anything to indicate that he'd noticed her leaving or had anything to _do_ with her absence.

Instead, he wiped off some of the gravy that'd gotten onto his collar when Eris's food and fork splattered onto his plate. Then he turned first to Kerstan and then to Draco, offering them some of the extra food and, having politely insisted that they each take a third of it, sat comfortably with his portion. He speared another carrot and, once again, as soon as it reached his mouth the noise level returned.

People seemed very determined to avoid looking at Tom for the moment, so Hermione thought she was the only one who saw the future Dark Lord Voldemort remove the piece of chicken from Eris's fork with his own and eat it. She didn't think it mattered much, figuring he grew up in an orphanage and probably knew not to let good food go to waste. Besides that, the fork had never even reached Eris's mouth, so it didn't have any of her "cooties" on it. Hermione wasn't the only one who noticed, though. Draco did as well, out of the corner of his eye. And _he_ thought it was odd enough for a fractionally raised eyebrow.

Then again he was born rich with money to burn and oodles of food to waste. He'd cordoned the extra food off from his own using a wall of vegetables he didn't like. In his view, it was dirty just having been on someone else's plate and that was that. Kerstan didn't seem to mind so much, though, he just picked off the bits he liked and left the rest alone, so money couldn't be all of it...

Hermione decided to stop paying attention to her classmates' eating habits before someone started paying attention to _hers_ and noticed she wasn't shoveling food in her mouth. She cut and stabbed a piece of chicken, brought it to her mouth, chewed, swallowed, and then went back for a potato. There, eating, like people are supposed to do at dinner.

Elaina said something to her that she couldn't quite make out, because the Quidditch team wasn't done opining about the best catch they'd seen all year yet. Hermione had overheard enough of _that_ never-ending conversation enough times to know that Draco had snatched the snitch from under "Robbie's" armpit. Or something to that effect. She assumed Robbie was the old seeker, of course, that was the only thing that made sense. She figured he was the guy sitting as far away from Draco as he could get while still being in the Team's block of seats. He was the only one that didn't look exultant.

She gave Elaina a shrug and headshake combo, to indicate that she hadn't heard and in return, Elaina smiled wryly at the Quidditch team and mouthed the word "Loud." Hermione nodded. So Elaina carefully mouthed the word "Later" Hermione nodded again and they both went back to eating, well, eating and watching other people eat in Hermione's case.

Tom and Kerstan seemed to be having a conversation that involved a multitude of hand signals and diagrams drawn in potatoes that they mashed to make drawing space and, a few shouted words over the vocal Quidditch team. Draco was positively glowing at all the praise he was getting. Glowing and trying to feign humility. It wasn't working; his grin was so broad he could've fit two lemon slices in it side by side. And behind and to the left of Draco's head, she could see Eris being cheered up by her Ravenclaw friends.

Hermione stifled a sigh and poked at a piece of cauliflower, wondering what it was that Elaina wanted to tell her.

_

* * *

Disclaimer: I don't own the Pillsbury Doughboy he's a... what? Trademark? Of the Pillsbury company. I hope I spelled Pillsbury right.Point being, he's there's not mine. I didn't create him and, quite frankly, he scares me_

_**end**** notes**_: _reviews are always appreciated ) _**(slightly revised)**

**_THANK YOU!_**

_**Artemis Moonclaw, Simply Myself**, **trapped-in-a-dream**, **JellyBellys**, _**_Avery-Rose-Rain-Slytherin, _**_**Magy**, **BlackAliss**, **Kou Shun'u**, __**Lilykins****Lady Evanescence, a**__**drianeANDkrissi**_


	8. nine : like lightning

**CHAPTER NINE**

_like lightning_

****

_November 11, 1996 _

* * *

Harry stood at the top of the stairs. The door stood in front of him. Neither moved. 

He could hear people talking inside although the words were too muffled for him to understand. It would've been able to hear everything perfectly if it'd had ears.

His invisibility cloak was folded neatly in his pocket, resting next to his right hand. It had never been invisible in its life. Its inside knob jutted from its right side. His left hand raked through tousled hair. Its outside knob stared at him from its left side.

Harry stared back at his curved reflection and frowned, waiting for the voices inside to stop. He considered putting on the invisibility cloak for a while, but in times like these no teacher would be stupid enough to send away Harry Potter when he urgently needed to speak to Dumbledore, so the cloak was unnecessary. He shifted and waited.

That seemed like an important thing to do now: waiting. If he'd waited for her she wouldn't be missing. If he'd waited for _him_ he'd still be alive. But he'd rushed. He'd been stubborn. He'd had to be such a bloody hero and it was always his fault. Any way he tossed it, always.

So he waited patiently, quietly, ignoring the knob's inviting shine.

Then the door creaked open and for a moment he thought it was odd that such an impeccably kept entryway should creak like that, but it fit his mood so well it was hard for him to think of it as anything but ordinary. The flustered Professor that stepped out of it was a touch worrying though. People were supposed to emerge from Dumbledore's office reassured and confident, not confused and agitated.

Especially not if they were Professor McGonagall.

It took her a few moments to notice Harry standing at the top of the stairs. She closed the door behind her softly and stood, not saying a word, staring at the grains in the woodwork. Harry stood, just as silently staring at her. His brows furrowed just slightly as she let out a defeated sigh, turning around and leaning against the door and staring down into the darkness of the staircase with unseeing eyes.

And still he stood, silent and unmoving, invisible in plain view, the cloak folded in his pocket, not saying a single word, barely even breathing—he was almost afraid to, unable to shake the feeling that this wasn't something he should be witnessing. Her lips were drawn thin, like they were when she was angry or worried or afraid. The wrinkles on her face seemed deeper, more pronounced, and the flickering torchlight didn't do much to soften them. Her eye sockets looked as though they'd sunken in, her eyes popping out slightly, and the bags under them so dark they were almost purple. Her hair was graying and so was her skin and as she stared down the staircase, that empty, vacant expression in her eyes, she looked almost dead.

Harry closed his. And when he opened them she was moving slowly, halfway down the staircase. He waited for the sound of the gargoyle moving aside before breathing normally again and then turned to the door. The knob reflected first his frown and then his hand as he placed a hand on it and turned, forgetting, for once, to knock. Professor McGonagall was his fault too, wasn't she? If Hermione wasn't missing she wouldn't look like she just had. If Harry hadn't been so bloody stupid.

He pushed and the door creaked ajar. He peered through the crack between door and way and saw that Dumbledore was sitting at his desk, humming and bobbing his head. The Headmaster, like the Transfiguration Professor didn't seem to notice Harry. So the bespectacled Gryffindor opened the door fully and stepped inside, giving it a little shove so it would swing closed behind him.

"Hello, Tom," came a despondent chirp from across the room.

Harry blanched at the name and corrected his... what was Dumbledore to him, exactly? More than a teacher, more than a superintendent, a _mentor_. A man who he'd once considered infallible. A father figure. "It's Harry, sir."

A part of him wanted to hate the old man, would never forgive him for turning out to be human. Blaise Zabini would've been sympathetic about this, would've commiserated with a wistful lack of sarcasm and said, "We never do forgive our fathers for being imperfect," but he was talking to Pansy and Crabbe and Harry never spoke to him anyway. He felt alone. Dumbledore wasn't just a flawed human being, he was getting senile. McGonagall looked old. Hermione was gone. Ron was unapproachable. Everything was his fault and his head hurt, only not in the way it _should've_ been hurting.

"Oh, yes, Harry," Dumbledore said, "Hello. Is something wrong?"

Harry's reply was hesitant. "It's... my scar, sir. It doesn't hurt."

Dumbledore beamed at him, deadened blue eyes peering over a pair of half moon spectacles that looked almost childish now. For the first time since he'd come to Hogwarts, Harry got the impression that Dumbledore was a silly old man on the verge of death. And that silly dying old man was beaming at him in a mechanical, plasticene way and saying, "That's good, then. You should really get back to bed."

Harry shook his head. Something was wrong and it wasn't just him this time, it was the Headmaster too. "Voldemort was in Hogsmeade earlier, wasn't he? That's what they've been saying—but my scar, it hasn't hurt."

Dumbledore was quiet for a minute, and for that minute Harry thought he'd gotten through for him. Dumbledore would stop being ridiculous and start being sage. "Tom, you say? Was she with him?"

"What?" Harry asked, eyes widening as he grasped for some meaning that would make his words make sense. "Hermione? Do you mean Hermione?"

Dumbledore appeared introspective. "Was that her name? No. She's that now, isn't she? Hmm.."

"Sir," Harry interrupted, hoping to wrestle the old man's train of thought back onto the right tracks. "My scar."

"Oh, yes," Dumbledore replied. His eyes closed for a moment, and hope came rushing back to Harry—"Well, if your scar didn't hurt He must not have been nearby."—and receded just as quickly.

And Harry felt as though he were looking down from the top of a very high cliff in very strong wind. His stomach fell the distance to the ground and he stared forward blankly. "Of course, sir," he replied. "I'll go to bed now then."

"Growing boys need their sleep," was the only reply before Dumbledore started humming again.

As Harry left the room he could've sworn someone was laughing, but there was no one else around. And as he closed the door he knew why McGonagall had looked the way she had. If he looked in the mirror now he'd probably look the same—just to check, he glanced down at his reflection in the doorknob only to find that his fingerprints had smudged it. He shook his head and turned around, putting right foot before left as he walked down the stairs.

If Dumbledore, _Dumbledore_, the one man reason why Hogwarts remained mostly untouched by Voldemort was losing his mind...

Harry didn't even want to think about it. All he wanted to do was go to sleep and forget the whole damned day had ever happened.

* * *

Severus Snape stared at his door, at the fine network of craze lines winding out like a spider's web from the center of it, so faint they could almost have been a figment of his imagination. 

He'd traced these lines with his eyes more times than he could remember. A constant reminder of a nightmare made flesh that'd rampaged through his house one night when his mother was out, that he'd killed with a lot of silver even though it'd been twice his size with yellow eyes and a dripping mouth, fangs sharp and glistening, and fur the same hue as the instrument of its death under the moon. He'd been eight and small and so afraid he'd shit his pants, but he had that long silver spear his father'd made him keep next to his bed.

And now that he thought about it he could smell the sour stench of fecal matter, feel it oozing in his trousers, feel his face go red at the humiliation that came with having done something so untidy, so cowardly. He could smell the rancid stink of the fearful sweat that drenched his clothes and he knew that the monster outside the door could smell it too.

His breath was humid and he could taste the acidic bile in his mouth. He could see the door cracking. He knew any second now it would fall, and he gripped the spear as tightly as he could with slimy palms and wanted to cry. Wanted to call for his dad or his mom and run away in tears. But they weren't there and there was nowhere for him to run to and he'd already shit his pants. If he cried now he'd be even more of a baby, so he stood his ground, trembling and dry-eyed, teeth clenched to keep tears from coming, waiting for the monster to break through, hoping it would turn tail and run and knowing that it wouldn't.

Then the door exploded inward, and the beast pounced, knocking Severus backward. Its claws sunk deep into his shoulder and he screamed as warm, canine saliva dripped onto his face. His eyes shut tight as an unearthly howl echoed in his ears, dominated his mind, bounced back and forth in his brain so that he still heard it seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, years, _decades_ after it'd ceased.

And when he opened his eyes the beast was gone and in its place was a man, impaled through the chest (maybe the heart?) on his father's silver spear. Blood was pouring from the man, but he wasn't dead yet and he looked down at Severus and said, "I'm sorry," before his eyes rolled back into his head. And his blood dripped down onto the little boy, covering him with sticky crimson and he screamed and screamed and didn't stop screaming not even when his throat burned and his voice was lost until his mother found him.

But he wasn't eight years old any more. He was a grown man, with no time to dwell on past nightmares. Not when there were new nightmares to worry about.

He shook his head. For a minute there—for more than a minute—it'd felt absolutely real; he'd been terrified as though it had been happening all over again. He checked his pants. They were clean, but his palms were sweaty. He went to his bed, sat down, and stared at them.

There were only five people besides himself who knew about the incident and of those five, three were already, for all intents and purposes, deceased. They were Amias Malfoy, Eris Daw, Ardennes Snape, his mother, and Tom Riddle. And of the six people who'd known he was the only one who thought himself a coward.

But no one had ever bothered to _tell_ him their take on the issue.

So he sat and stared at his sweaty palms and remembered that when danger'd arisen he'd shit his pants, conveniently forgetting that he'd stood his ground ready to fight _even though _he'd gotten the shit scared out of him. That was the way he was sitting and brooding and silently calling himself a crooked nosed coward—the way Sirius Black used to—a half hour later when his mother entered the room.

Ten minutes later, when the both of them left it, he took one last look at the door. Despite the millions of times they'd magically repaired and refinished it, it'd never fully recovered.

* * *

Harry got to Gryffindor tower without incident. The fat lady was in her portrait, so he said the password, which was "valor" and she swung open. Inside the common room a fire was blazing in the fireplace. Harry took no notice of this, though, intending to flop down on his bed, go to sleep, and never wake up. 

He was so tired his bones ached, hell, it felt like his _soul_ ached. Exhausted and stressed and worried and feeling guilty like an idiot all over again he wondered how many times one guy could fuck up?

The brave Mr. Potter's trek back to Gryffindor had been so uneventful, he'd been able to draw up a list of things that were his fault, people who were dead or hurt or missing because of him and Merlin if it wasn't a lengthy list... First there were his parents, then Cedric Diggory, Sirius, Hermione, Dumbledore's condition was probably his fault too, and so was...

Then someone called him.

He turned to see Neville sitting by the fireside in an armchair and replied, "Yeah?" taking a cautious step toward the other boy.

"Did you go see Dumbledore?" Neville asked. "That is where you went, right?"

Harry nodded in reply, shifting slightly. If Neville asked about Dumbledore what would he say? _The old man's cracking up, we're all going to die ?_

Neville nodded back and queried, "Any news about Hermione?" Harry almost sighed in relief.

Of course he didn't ask about Dumbledore, why would he? Then the question sank in and Harry's mood took a nosedive. "No," he replied, shaking his head morosely. "I've only heard rumours and Dumbledore didn't say anything. What've you heard?"

Neville shook his head. "Nothing about Hermione, but the newest is that Draco Malfoy tried to walk out on a Death Eater initiation ceremony in or near Hogsmeade." He shrugged.

_That_ rumour was the handiwork of one Blaise Zabini, who figured it was always good to have well known dissenters, and it'd spread like wildfire. Proof positive of the Slytherin boy's theory that if one utilized the right people (and portraits), a rumour could get across the school and back within the hour. But neither Harry nor Neville knew where the rumour started, and that was just as well.

Harry felt his jaw drop. "What? Why?" he asked, trying to wrap his mind around this new information. Malfoy walked out on a Death Eater initiation? _Malfoy_?

Neville stared at his feet and said, "Well, it _is_ just a rumour... but it feels true for some reason... maybe because it's so hard to believe?"

Harry shook his head slowly, the implication sinking in. "It can't be true, though. Because if it is, that means Voldemort was definitely at Hogsmeade—but Nev, my scar."

"What about it?" Neville asked, eyebrows furrowing in typical Gryffie style.

"It didn't hurt while we were at Hogsmeade," Harry replied, feeling a bit relieved as Neville's eyes widened at the fact, thankful that at least someone besides himself thought there was something odd going on. Well, besides the obvious at least.

"Is that what you went to see Dumbledore about?" Neville asked, still staring at his shoelaces.

Harry swallowed before saying, "Yeah," knowing what the next question would be.

"What did he say about it?" inquired Neville, not failing to disappoint.

Harry shrugged and faltered. "I...he... he doesn't know what to make of it."

Neville apparently failed to notice his hesitation and said, "That's not good."

"No," Harry agreed, and then feeling a change of subject was in order asked, "How's Ron?"

Neville shook his head, pudgy fingers dancing on the armrests of his chair. Harry felt sorry for him sometimes, the poor boy always seemed so _nervous_. "Not good," he replied, finally. "He's just gone to the infirmary. Blames himself, you know. Because he's the one that suggested you leave because she could catch up with the second group."

Harry nodded, acknowledging the fact before shaking his head to refute it. "But it's not his fault."

"I know that and you know that, but he won't believe it." Neville said, clearly. "I think the only person to blame here is Voldemort."

Harry shrugged, not quite agreeing. The way _he_ figured it... but he'd been brooding on that for hours...

_

* * *

"Tom." _

_"Hmm?"_

_"What exactly do you mean when you say you 'tried something' on my son?"_

_"Just an experiment."_

_"An experiment?"_

_"Yes."_

_"What sort of experiment?"_

_"The fun sort."_

_"Fun?"_

_"Oh, don't worry, it isn't as bad as it could be."_

_"What do you mean?"_

_"It could be worse if you persist with these questions."_

_"You're a bastard."_

_"Yes."_

* * *

"Do you know a six letter word for stupid?" 

For the fiftieth time that day, Terry Boot cursed himself for tripping over that trick stair. If only he'd been a little bit more careful... but no, he hadn't, so here he was and there Ron was. He turned his head to the left, wondering where Madame Pomfrey'd gotten to and why she hadn't closed the curtains.

"Stupid _is_ a six letter word, Ron," he replied.

The Gryffindor didn't seem placated. "You know what else has six letters?" He was still staring straight up at the ceiling. Terry frowned. That probably wasn't very healthy. "Ronald has six letters," he finished, when Terry said nothing.

Terry thought it best to keep his silence, but his reticence didn't seem to have any effect on the other boy whatsoever.

"It's also a good six letter word for stubborn. Stupid, stubborn, oh, and impatient. Remember that the next time you're doing one of those... word things you do."

Terry sighed—"Ron, you're being stupid."

"Bloody right I am."

—and gave up for the moment

* * *

His hands were somnambulists. She watched intently as his fingers tiptoed across the edges of his bed one moment and then rose, picking up some unseen ingredient, dumping it into an equally invisible potion, and stirring the whole with exquisite care the next. 

They said true potions Masters could concoct complicated elixirs in their sleep. Mr. Snape could and she had half a mind to stand Severus up and drag him to a workstation to see whether he had the same ability. But if he wasn't as good as she liked to believe the entire house could go up. So she bit her bottom lip and watched him stir the air with a spoon made of carbon and oxygen and who only knew what else.

It was dark out and a week till the full moon. One candle flickered on the bedside table to Severus's right. They were in the late Mr. Snape's cabin, in the heart of his namesake.

Severus wouldn't be told that, though. Best if he didn't know where they were—that was what had been decided. If he was unsure of his location it'd be harder for him to escape or rendezvous with any of his cohorts in that Order he was involved in.

Mrs. Snape shook her head and stared out the window. Children so rarely did what was best for them and parents so rarely directed them toward the right course of action. Perhaps if she'd dissuaded him from joining Tom in the first place... but she hadn't known he was even considering it, the idea was so foreign. That one of her own, her _son_ would ever think of signing himself over to the "Dark Lord Voldemort" was more than incomprehensible. It was almost galling.

He should've known better. And he should've known better than to try to rectify his mistake by signing himself over to that Dumbledore. He should've known never to pledge allegiance, never to make a promise he couldn't revoke. He was a bloody _Slytherin_ for Merlin's sake. How could he have made such ridiculous mistakes?

But that was the problem with Slytherins nowadays wasn't it? They had to be directed. They couldn't be satisfied with simply striking out on their own and making the world better or worse as it suited them, oh no, they had to have _community_, they had to have a bloody _cause_. Why, in her day Slytherins were irreverent, apathetic as hell, and pleased as punch about it.

Well, perhaps that wasn't entirely true, but nonetheless...

Nonetheless, she'd never been inspired to go out and get herself branded like a ranch cow and most of her friends had abstained as well. Of course, they were all dead now, but... And she frowned, deepening the wrinkles around her mouth. That was Tom's fault more than theirs. Tom's fault more than hers. And perhaps that'd been their cause. Freedom, liberty, and the right not to be kicked around by one of their own bloody classmates. Perhaps they hadn't thought of it in so many terms, but only cattle got branded and they were much too clever and much too contrary to ever be ground beef.

Besides that, selfish pride was a much better cause than genocide. If all Slytherins had followed their desire to put themselves in absolute first, Tom Riddle wouldn't have gotten as powerful as he did. At least that's what Mrs. Snape believed. He would still have gone far, but not half so far without followers.

The silver filigree on the windowsill winked at her and she traced it with the tips of her nails.

All was past now. Everything was over for the two of them. At least it was if she had anything to say about it. They'd stay in the cabin, hidden away as agreed. They wouldn't leave, food and things would be brought to them, and they wouldn't have anything further to fear from Voldemort or from Dumbledore. She'd cut a deal. She'd cut a deal and now they were safe and they'd be safe until everything was over with and all their bases were covered for the aftermath. If Dumbledore won Severus was on his side. If Voldemort won Mrs. Snape's deal stayed intact and they lived out the rest of their lives in the cabin in the woods.

So blame didn't matter, Slytherin didn't matter, and all causes lay slain at her feet. All was past and the past was dead. And Mrs. Snape would keep it that way.

**_

* * *

end_****_ notes_**: _reviews are always loved and appreciated. _

**_THANK YOU!_**

**_JellyBellys, _****_Black Aliss, _****_trapped-_****_in-a-dream, _****_Merit Somnia_**


	9. ten : milly billy

**CHAPTER TEN**

_milly billy_

****

_November 12, 1996 _-

* * *

Millicent always got up early on Mondays. This was partly because no one else ever did and partly because the weekends always threw her internal clock off a beat or two. In any case, she always had the common room to herself, to sort her things out in the morning. Every day of the week, actually, because most Slytherins weren't morning people. But mostly Mondays. She always had the longest on Mondays. 

This Monday, she walked over to the desk and pulled rolls of parchment out of her bag one by one, separating her homework from her unused papers. The parchment rolls were followed by scraps, which were arranged in a small pile, and then her books came out and were carefully ordered and stacked, an ink well and quills in a leather pouch were placed on the table next to the parchment after that. And lastly, a small black velvet box.

She ran her thumb across this, keeping it in her palm, feeling the soft of it. She lifted her left hand under it, to release the golden clasp that kept it shut—

"What's that?"

—and then jumped abruptly; the box hopping in her palm as she fumbled to get a good hold on it again.

"What the hell are you doing up this early? It's five o' clock in the bloody morning!"

Blaise blinked at her a few times before saying, "Well... you're up, aren't you?"

Millicent sputtered. "I—Yes, but—"

"What's that?" Blaise interrupted, pointing at the box.

Millicent pulled her hands close to her chest, concealing the box under them. "None of your business! And I'm _always_ up this early, _you_—"

Blaise raised his hand to interject calmly, "I know you are, that's precisely why I'm here—mind you, getting up at 4:45 in the morning just so I can catch you at five is no easy task, so the least you can do is talk to me—"

"_Why_ do you want to talk to me?" Millicent asked, putting the velvet box back into her bag.

Blaise seemed to ignore her, watching the box as it went in. "You know, you forgot your line earlier? When I snuck up behind you, you should've said something like 'back off or I'll knock your teeth out' or grunted menacingly or something," he pointed out absently. Millicent blanched. Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth once, as though she was about to make an argument. She shook her head and closed her mouth again, electing to say nothing. Blaise smiled at her mockingly or reassuringly, she couldn't tell which, and said, "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone."

She crossed her arms and glared at him. "What do you want?"

_

* * *

__"Help."_

**_What was that, Albus?_**

_Not you._

Professor McGonagall tilted her head and looked at the Headmaster thoughtfully.

"Did you say something, Albus?"

The Headmaster shook his head, offering a weak smile. "No. It was nothing."

"All right."

_I thought heroes weren't supposed to age._

**_Of course not._****_ Real heroes die young._**

_I defeated you._

**_I let you._**

"Albus... are you sure you're all right?"

"Of course, Minerva. Perfectly fine. Just a bit... tired. That's all."

And he smiled again and she stood up from the early breakfast and went to go prepare for class. She hated that smile. Mirthless unnatural... it stayed on his face for hours.

She shook her head, the memory of their breakfast conversation invading her thoughts. How she'd tried to get him to consider questioning the Slytherins again, how he'd told her about that business with Harry's scar and dismissed it at that. And then the day before during the interrogations when he'd just—_spaced_.

It wasn't like him. Of course he was always a bit eccentric, but never irresponsible, never _stupid_ like this. Severus had pointed out those of his house for a _reason_. He'd gone missing while searching for Hermione and Draco in _Hogsmeade_ and they'd gone missing there too. This had Voldemort's mark all over it, she was sure of it. There was _something_ going on and if Dumbledore couldn't see it, wouldn't consider it... If he was truly losing his mind...

They'd have to send him to St. Mungo's, get him treatment. She winced at the very thought. Dumbledore _was_ Hogwarts. He was the lynchpin, the keystone, without him, or at least his spirit the whole place would've fallen apart long ago—when Grindelwald was around, when Voldemort attacked for the first time and recently. Recently, like now.

Would they be able to do without him? He was the leader of the Order of the Phoenix, he was the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, he was... obviously losing his mind. Obviously. But Voldemort couldn't know that. Dumbledore wouldn't be able to leave the school, wouldn't be able to show weakness otherwise they'd be attacked, and then the children, oh, the _children_.

There was nothing for it then. He'd just have to grin and bear it. Buck up, so to speak. Stop going insane. He could do it. He was Dumbledore. He'd _better_ do it. Maybe she could help him. Maybe they all could. It was a pity Severus wasn't around, he could've helped with his legilimency and his potions. But they would find him. Once they got Dumbledore set right. She smiled. Yes, once they got Dumbledore set right.

_And if we can't?_The traitorous thought stowed away on her thought train and she frowned at it. What a horrible thing to say. What a horrible thing to think. _But if we can't?_ It persisted. _Then we'll figure something out. We are responsible, intelligent adults, after all. We're teachers, aren't we? _She reasoned. _Pedagogues, do we even remember how to invent? _It asked. _Of course we do. _And she frowned again. _But if we don't... we'll teach what we know to those who can. _

Professor McGonagall opened the door to her classroom and looked over the rows of desks, eyes resting finally on her own at the front of the class and she smiled again. One way or another things would be all right. There were always options. But it would be smart to try the best one first and so that's what she'd do. She'd present the problem to the rest of her colleagues and together they'd figure a way to solve it. And if they couldn't solve that one, perhaps they could do without Dumbledore. And if they _couldn't_ do without Dumbledore they could find someone that could. Simple as that. For now at least.

She smiled and set up her things, trying not to let the sense of impending doom bother her too much.

* * *

Millicent stared at the insufferable black haired intruder with narrow-eyed astonishment.

"You're bloody insane, you know that right?"

He shrugged and smiled. He did have a nice smile. "That's the second time in twenty-four hours I've been told that. You know, the first time in six years that I've been really social and everybody feels the need to call me insane."

"Because you are."

"What a hurtful thing to say." She kept staring at him. So he asked her, "Millicent, do you believe in Voldemort?"

"Of course I do. He's alive and killing people, it'd be bloody stupid not to believe in him when faced with the irrevocable evidence of his existence," she stated voice full of irony.

Blaise scowled. "You know that's not what I meant. I meant... do you believe in what he says?"

"You mean the propaganda and off key slogans he uses to lure unsuspecting idiots into his not-so-secret club where they get to wear that oh-so-cool looking tattoo on their arms?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah," he replied brightly, "That."

Her lips flattened and she looked about to roll her eyes as she said, "No," flatly.

"Neat!" Blaise exclaimed. Her other eyebrow joined the first in its raised position. "You can help me with my anti-Voldy campaign."

Her head leaned forward and shook a little as her stocky neck strained. "Your what?"

"Pansy and Crabbe and the pro-Voldy-ites are recruiting," he stated, as though everything he was thinking should be blatantly obvious to her.

She hated that. "Yes...?" she replied, slowly.

"We have to stop them," he concluded, feeling that this was the only logical statement that could be made.

Millicent apparently didn't follow. "Why? Do you honestly think so many people are going to join Voldemort that we'll actually be in such danger that it'd be best to take counterpoint as early as possible?"

"Some of his arguments can seem very convincing. You know that, you've heard them," Blaise replied, on the defense now. He hadn't expected her to argue with him, although, now that he thought about it he really should have. Stupid shortsighted Blaise. Oh well.

"Yes, I have," Millicent replied, nodding. "But they didn't work on me. Apparently they didn't work on you, although who knows who _you're_ really working for. And besides us, Goyle had himself pulled out of the ceremony beforehand didn't he? Stalling, I assume. And rumour has it that Draco walked out on his initiation."

"I started that," Blaise stated, proudly. Across the school and back in under an hour. Or at least by morning. The Hogwarts rumour mill was so incredibly useful he wanted to kiss it.

Millicent shrugged. "I thought so. Did he really?"

"According to Pansy."

"An eminently reliable source of information," she remarked dryly.

"When Draco's involved, yes," Blaise countered. "She _is_ in love with him. Despite evidence to the contrary. If she thinks we'll be able to help him in any way she'll tell the absolute truth. She thought that, as his cousin and, being the incredibly sage, quiet person that I am, I might know more about what happened to him or be able to make sense of the situation as she told it."

"Could you?" Millicent asked.

Blaise shook his head. "Not really. It's all sort of confusing. She was in a lot of pain at the time—just received her Dark Mark. She said while Voldemort was Marking her, the other Death Eaters heard some sort of shout in the passageway and then noticed Draco was missing, so they went to go see what it was. Then she and Voldemort followed after he'd finished Marking her. And it looked like Draco'd captured Hermione, but they were just playacting and they petrified or stunned the Death Eaters they were supposed to be following back into the chamber and then they ran, but they were stopped and ended up running back to the chamber and Voldemort and he was about to kill them when they disappeared."

"Just disappeared?" Millicent repeated. "No poof? No flash of light?"

"No nothing. One second they're there the next they're not," Blaise said, raising his hands.

"That's odd."

"Odd and beside the point," said Blaise. "What happens to them right now is a mystery but it's none of our concern. What _does_ concern us is Voldemort."

"Why not just rat out Pansy to Dumbledore?" Millicent asked with a shrug. "Simple as that, end of story. She goes to Azkaban or to questioning and no one will get recruited by her or her lackeys."

"Because I think there's something wrong with Dumbledore," Blaise replied. "He was questioning me yesterday... not really. McGonagall was questioning me. He was just sort of sitting behind his desk staring at nothing, which isn't really usual behavior for him. And his eyes, you know how they normally twinkle?" Millicent nodded. "They didn't then. They looked glassy, like the eyes of a carcass that a taxidermist's gotten hold of."

"Flat dead and fake?" She offered. Blaise nodded. "So there's something wrong with his head, then?"

Blaise nodded again. "Probably. That's what it seems like."

"Maybe _that's _what you should be trying to fix then. Dumbledore, I mean," Millicent reasoned.

Blaise shrugged and shook his head. "I don't think it's anything we _can_ fix. I mean I get the feeling he's being acted on by some external force, but I can't even begin to guess what that might be since I don't think it's Voldemort."

"Because if it _was_ Voldemort he'd already be attacking the school?"

"Yeah."

"So, your solution is to... preach anti-Voldyism to counter Pansy's pro-Voldyism?" Millicent asked, voice still dry and flat.

"Basically," Blaise said, almost feeling stupid. _Almost_. "Look, with purebloods... even with purebloods who aren't pureblooded like the Malfoy's are, that superiority it's... ingrained. Maybe it's not conscious and maybe they don't really acknowledge it, but when a muggleborn beats them it's like... if a guy lost a fight to a girl. Maybe you're not _trying_ to be anti-feminist, but it's such a cultural standard that it happens. And pureblood superiority is a cultural standard for them. All the children's stories... I mean... you've heard them. They're mostly about pureblooded nobility overcoming muggleborn peasantry, etc. etc. etc. And _everyone_ knows these stories, Mil, and it's not just the stories it's... it's this odd system of insidious indoctrination and He _uses_ that."

She offered a half smile. "Because it's really hard not to like someone that tells you you're better than everyone else?"

"Especially when he provides semi-plausible reasons for it," Blaise said.

"Which _still_ has nothing to do with me. This isn't my thing. My thing is grunting and being huge and stupid and antagonistic. Last I checked, _your_ thing was being quiet, nondescript, and fading into the background."

"This is too important to let it go like that... if they do actually get recruits life could get very uncomfortable for anti-Voldy Slytherins," Blaise replied.

"Things'll be uncomfortable either way. I don't want to do anything. I want to go back to being my huge grunting antagonistic self out of everyone's way and out of everyone's mind."

"Well," said Blaise shrugging. "You can't always get what you want."

"I know that, but—"

"A little discomfort now can rid us of a _lot_ of discomfort in the future. If you're _anything _like me that's a very appealing idea, and I think you are very much like me considering certain facts."

"Right, and I'm assuming you want me to be Millicent the Enforcer?" she asked archly.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "I was actually kind of thinking you could be 'Milly Billy', Blaise's friend."

"Never call me that," she muttered glaring.

"Oh, come on, Milly Billy, it's a good name," he replied, with a distinctly Malfoy-esque smirk.

"Whatever," she mumbled, looking as though it was all she could do to keep from rolling her eyes. "One question though."

"Hmmm?"

"Why did Malfoy try to walk out on his initiation ceremony?"

"I told him to."

**_

* * *

_****_You know Albus, that the present situation is entirely your fault._**

_Yes._

**_If you'd left well enough alone—_**

_Yes._

**_Do you know what I'm saying, Albus?_**

_Yes._

**_That's good Professor._**

_Yes._

**_And how are you feeling today?_**

_Old._

**_Good._**

A yearbook lay open in front of him. Its cover was black in mourning. It was the book for the school year of 1940-41 and on the first page was a list of dead students. On the second page was a list of students who'd lost family. Both lists were much too long. But had they been just two names longer... Two names in exchange for how many hundreds. Maybe.

He turned the pages. The Headmaster kept a copy of every yearbook since he'd been at the school. He stored them all on one of his bookshelves and in the past sometimes when he had free time he'd take them down and flip through them, remembering as many of his students as he could. Mourning some, regretting some, wondering how the rest were doing.

The pages after the first two were for titles and such. And then collages of mourners and mourning and everything in black and white. Wizarding photography had developed long before muggle photography, thanks to magic and such, and the photos were in far better condition than they would've been had they been snapped with a muggle camera. There were candid pictures of every living Hogwarts student in the book. That was how they were always done. No one ever sat for a picture, they were just snapped in random places and their names were listed under their images.

There was Minerva McGonagall, head inclined over a large book, glasses almost falling off her nose. And Daniel Potter a few pages later, holding a broomstick and grinning, wild hair flying about. Then a cluster of Slytherins, Elaina Goyle, Ardennes Snape, Nadia Rook, and Andrew Crow watching a game of wizard's chess between the Malfoys Amias and Kerstan. A picture of Tom Riddle and Eris Daw below them, sitting on a couch and reading, that snake of his coiled near their feet. Those Slytherins never liked to be photographed. The photographer had probably surprised all of them and gotten hexed for it.

Dumbledore slammed the book shut and set it aside. Then he picked up the book for the school year 1942-43. This book was brown, like most of the Hogwarts yearbooks. He still didn't know exactly why he'd picked it off the shelf. Impulse perhaps.

**_Because I told you to._**

_Impulse._

He opened it. The titles were on the first page, not enough dead that year to make page one.

**_Page 28, dear Dumbledore._**

And he turned the pages, until he got to number twenty-eight. He stared at it, at the pictures, at the faces. One in particular caught his eye. It was another picture of a Slytherin cluster. They were at a Quidditch game. There was Elaina, in red, he remembered, although the picture didn't reflect it. And Eris next to her, snake around her neck, looking absolutely petrified. Next to her was Nadia Rook, she'd brought a cloth to sit on. Odd Slytherins that year, he remembered. Tom Riddle was in that year. And there he was a row above the three girls, behind Eris who sat in the middle, and next to him the face that'd caught his eye.

Just above Nadia Rook's head, the image of Hermione Granger waved at him enthusiastically. He stared at it blankly.

**_You know her name_**

Yes he did. And he said it aloud, just to make sure. "Harmony Rush," he muttered. "Merlin."

He flipped through the book, looking for a certain page, and a name that had always sounded so familiar. "Draco Malfoy," he read, finding the Slytherin Quidditch team at last. Sure enough, the boy scowled up at him from his grayscale confines.

"How did I forget them?" he asked, brows furrowing in worry. "I should've remembered them. How _could _I forget?"

**_Me, of course._**

_How long have you been with me?_

**_Long._**

He'd have to tell Minerva. He didn't trust himself to be able to do anything productive with the information at the moment. He'd leave the books on her desk with a note. Because he solved the problem. He knew where Hermione and Draco had gotten to. Severus on the other hand... that was still a mystery. But it could be solved. Dumbledore had a feeling the Potions Master was all right wherever he was. And now the Headmaster had picture perfect proof that the children were fine where they were, for the time being. And if he remembered correctly no harm would come to them. At least none that he was familiar with. Their names weren't on the list that year and they weren't in the next, so they'd be fine for the time being. The staff would be happy to hear that. Their friends would be happy to hear that.

**_No need to thank me._**

_Why did you make me forget?_

**_Glad you asked._**

**_

* * *

_****_end notes_**: reviews are always loved and appreciated. 

_THANK YOU!_

_Black Aliss, __Adriane-enairdA, __firesorceress1, __El Ci Aech Johnson_


	10. eleven : helmet's flesh and blood

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

_helmet's flesh and blood_

_November 13, 1942 _

_

* * *

"I know it seems like Tom's a complete jerk." _

_"Yes."_

_"And I'm not saying he's not."_

_"No?"_

_"No, but I _am_ saying he's not _just_ what he seems. If you know what I mean."_

_"Oh?"_

_"Yes. He's very nice, generally speaking."_

_"Really?"_

_"Mmm.__ It's just that he and Eris sort of... hate each other."_

_"Why?"_

_"Who knows?__"_

* * *

It was seven thirty on Monday morning. Seven bloody thirty on a fucking Monday morning and they were already bickering about— 

Draco inclined his head for a second and rubbed his eyes.

—soup. That was it. Eris had started this one with some comment about a worthless parentless guttersnipe who'd probably poisoned her soup and Tom had valiantly stood up in defense of himself, and now they were saying something about peas that he couldn't quite catch and that he didn't quite care to. They were just making so much damned _noise_ and by Merlin's toe-jams he was tired. And, fuck, Merlin's bloody _toe-jams_?

He yawned.

Stupid chatty mudbloods. Never knew when to shut up. Like Granger and that whole bloody initiation fiasco. If she'd just shut her bloody trap he'd be at Hogwarts hiding behind Dumbledore right now instead of sitting next to his would-be murderer. The great and terrible Tom Riddle whose great and terrible argument had drifted over to carrots.

He stared at his soup—Why were they eating soup and veggies for breakfast? —and yawned again.

History of Magic was his first class. Not one that he would've chosen on his own, but he didn't pick his schedule. Mum and Dad did. And while this should've been slightly embarrassing he didn't much care. He couldn't think of any specific academic field he wanted to go into. If he thought about it, he realized that he sort of wanted to be a professional Quidditch player. Not that there was much chance of that happening. But it would be all right if he never found a career because the Malfoy's were so rich he could party all day and live off of interest. So long as the parties weren't too expensive. Maybe he could go clubbing. That would be cheap. So long as he didn't do any drugs. Or whores. But he was good looking, so why would he ever have to _pay_ for sex? Inconceivable.

A pea flew past his left ear. He turned his head slowly in the direction that it'd come from and saw that the argument had degenerated into a minor pea fight. Lovely. He saw Granger get hit in the forehead with a tiny green projectile and smiled. Eris's aim was apparently much better than Tom's, but he was the better catcher. Draco saw him catch one of Eris's peas in his mouth and chomp it down. He remembered that _that_ Tom Riddle was very odd about food. Poor people generally were, he thought.

A dark haired menacing woman made her way over to the combatants. She was wearing glasses with rectangular frames, her hair was pulled into a tight bun, and Draco could make out faint traces of gray in it. She seemed about forty and she stopped just next to Tom.

"Mr. Riddle," she said, "If you'd kindly explain what is going on here?"

"She's neurotic," Tom replied, pointing across the table at Eris. She threw a pea at him. He ducked and it landed with a faint splatting sound on the floor behind him.

"Ms. Daw," the woman said, turning to Eris. "Have you considered getting psychiatric help? Might I send you to the counselor?"

Eris shook her head. "No, Professor Bourdillon, I'm quite fine now, thank you."

"No more pea tossing?"

Eris shook her head and blushed. "No, Professor, I'm sorry."

"Quite all right," the Professor replied warmly. "Now eat your breakfast. That's what it's actually meant for."

Eris and Tom nodded, glaring at each other nonetheless and the Professor left.

Draco stared at his soup and moved his own peas around a bit with his spoon. Voldemort had small-scale food fights with a chubby classmate when he was sixteen. How inspiring. Either it was all a sham or Voldemort was incredibly immature, which, Draco had to admit, was a lot coming from him of all people. He yawned again, apparently catching his own over and over, and rubbed his bleary eyes before dipping his spoon into his soup. He was actually sort of hungry. Now that he thought about it, that was.

Binns was alive this year, wasn't he? Draco wasn't sure. He died old. No one ever said how long he'd been dead. He could be alive this year. Alive and droning and boring. It would be easy to sleep through his class...

_

* * *

How does one travel back fifty-four years in the blink of an eye? _

Eris raised her hand.

Somehow Hermione doubted she had the answer to her question. The Slytherin girl sat in the back corner, near the door, and her hand was up and waving slightly as her muscles tired from keeping it up until finally Binns called her.

"Yes Eris?" he sounded exasperated. Exasperated and unsurprised, which did surprise Hermione. She remembered he'd been shocked at her raised hand in second year. Remembered he'd barely remembered her name. Now he didn't look so much shocked as he did reluctant. His shoulders were slumped and tensed at the same time; his glasses seemed to sit further down on his nose than normal. Odd. Hermione waited for the interruption to be over, so she could resume taking notes. She had half a sheet already filled.

"Professor Binns, sir," Eris was saying sweetly, "But... _why_ did the Gringotts goblins go on strike?"

"The specifics have been lost with time; the only things left are unsubstantiated theories. This is a History class, we deal in facts, Ms. Daw, and the _accepted_ facts are that in 18—" he began, continuing his informative drone.

"But that's not what you used to say," mumbled a boy sitting somewhere in the center of the room. And Hermione realized for the first time how _full_ the room was. Of course, she'd seen it when she'd turned back to look at Eris, but she hadn't really noticed. There were so many people—it made little sense. She had it on very good authority that History of Magic was a class avoided as though the ghost teaching it carried bubonic plague when it wasn't compulsory.

The Professor was alive in 1942, though. Did that have something to do with it? She couldn't see much change in him. Except in his recognition of his students, and his lack of surprise at the fact that they would raise their hands and ask questions. There might've been something significant in that, Hermione couldn't tell. It wasn't what her mind was on.

_1942. _She hadn't been able to sleep at all last night, the realization that she hadn't made an effort to get back yet, or even figure out what'd happened had almost stopped her heart, and she'd laid in bed wondering what could be done.The first step would be to find out how they'd gotten back in the first place. It wasn't a time turner that was for sure, no time turner could manage fifty years. In fact, nothing that she knew of could manage fifty years. Not on it's own and not so fast.

Professor Binns seemed not to notice the boys mumble as he continued. "If you'll all open your texts to page one sixty two, Ms. Daw, you especially, you'll find the reasons for the Goblin Strike of 1854 in detail..."

Hermione did so, dutifully. _Something _had a hand in their time traveling that she didn't know about. Perhaps it was something in that chamber? But what? Voldemort hadn't come back with them. Well, he was here, technically, but he hadn't come back with them

The book was called _A History of Magic: The Wizarding Journey_ and it was written by Arthur Fice. Page one sixty-two depicted a caricatured goblin rubbing two gold coins together and smiling wickedly. Hermione read the text below quietly to herself as Binns wrote important points on the board. The text read:

_In the early days, goblins were greedy cave-dwelling creatures that hoarded gold and jewels stolen from miners in dry, dark, mazelike caverns. These qualities made them ideal keepers of the original Gringotts bank, which was constructed over a network of goblin tunnels at around the same time Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was being constructed. _

_The goblins made perfect bankers, due to the fact that they did not wish to spend any of the treasures they guarded, preferring to keep them safe in their tunnels. However, goblin greed reared its ugly head several times after the creation of the bank, and continued to do so well into the 19th century. This greed caused the goblins to want more gold to keep for themselves, which in turn caused them to go on massive strikes for better wages to satisfy their lust for treasure._

_One of the most violent of these was the Strike of 1854, in which Gringotts goblins set fire to the above ground facility, killing three Aurors, who had been dispatched to quell the increasingly physical arguments between the goblins and the Ministry officials. Six of those officials were also killed in the blaze. This incident led to the conviction and incarceration of three leaders of the Goblin Strike._

_Eventually, the wage dilemma was solved and the building rebuilt as a result of direct intervention by then Minister of Magic, Scrooge Lesher. Modern goblins are much more civilized than their predecessors and therefore not bound by the consuming greed that so ruled their ancestors. Recently, the Ministry has been considering the possibility of letting Gringotts bank be self-run by its goblin managers, to give the goblins more freedom. It is very likely that in the future, Gringotts will be entirely managed by its expert goblin bankers. _

In the middle of page one sixty-three, where the section ended, there was a black and white photograph of a 'modern' Gringotts goblin handing someone a bag of gold and smiling.

"Notes on the board," Binns said, pointing, before going to sit behind her desk. Hermione couldn't remember him having done that much in her time. Usually he stayed in the front of the room and lectured throughout the class. Apparently this was one of the times he deviated. She copied the board.

_So _it either had something to do with the chamber or it didn't. Probably not, but what else could it be? She tried to remember the books she'd read on time travel, but she'd only looked through a few on time turners and that was something she'd already ruled out. Maybe Draco was carrying some sort of Dark Magic time device with him?

"I don't understand."—that was from Nadia, who sat directly to her left. The punctilious Slytherin was staring at her text, eyebrows half-raised half-furrowed in what seemed like angry confusion. "The goblins burned down the bank out of greed? But don't Gringotts goblins live in the bank? Burning the upper facility might've trapped them in the tunnels, mightn't it? And how did Scrooge Lesher solve the wage dilemma? Did he give them the raise or didn't he?"

"The answers to all your questions should be in the text, Ms. Rook," the Professor replied simply. Hermione glanced at her text and flipped through the pages.

"Professor Binns?" from the back of the class, Eris again, and her eyebrows were genuinely furrowed, making her look like a Gryffindor or a Hufflepuff as she turned the pages in her textbook, genuine confusion scrawled all over her face. "On what page?"

"Information on the Goblin Strike of 1854 is between pages one sixty-two and one sixty-three," said Professor Binns blandly. "If the information is _not_ there, it may be because it is pure speculation and nothing more. This book only lists the _accepted_ facts."

"But wait, I thought—" that was from a chubby girl with a high-pitched voice somewhere off to Hermione's right.

"That is where the information is, Ms. Perkins," Professor Binns stated. "This is a History class. We don't deal in speculation. Is that clear?" his voice rose a bit there, and his cheeks reddened slightly. This Hermione had never seen before. Of course not, in her time Professor Binns was a ghost, but there it was. As far as she'd known his voice had only one pitch tone and cadence. Even Draco seemed to have been shaken out of his half-asleep stupor and she saw him raise an eyebrow at the Professor's animation before shrugging and going back to sleep.

"Yes, Professor," the class chorused almost morosely.

Binns nodded, opened his copy of the text, and began to lecture again in that dead droning tone Hermione was used to. It was her turn to knit her brows slightly as she took notes. Why _did_ the goblins burn down the bank if it was their home? Why wasn't that information in the text? She flipped back to check, and found it _was_ in the text on page one fifty-four in a blurb about how most goblin tunnels were so run down that they were unable to support goblin life, so the goblins had been offered positions by the Ministry. The space between her eyebrows shortened at that, and she wondered also what it was that Scrooge Lesher had done to "solve the wage dilemma". He'd probably opened up communication between the goblins and the Ministry officials to make negotiations run more smoothly...

_Most _of the books on time she'd read had focused mainly on the awful things that happened to wizards and witches who played with time and the extreme caution that must be used. You mustn't be seen, they all said. But no one'd ever gone back fifty years. Fifty _days_ hadn't even been managed yet. Whatever they'd done they'd broken new ground, they were pioneers, they were... Oh this was ridiculous, someone had to have done extensive time travel before; she just had to find the right reference.

Next to her, Nadia Rook muttered something grouchily as she copied the board. "Greed is an unsubstantiated theory..."

And in the back row, in the corner opposite Eris's, so quiet Hermione'd forgotten he was there, Tom Riddle sat, scribbling furiously on a long piece of parchment. His eyes raised just then, and she averted hers, quickly turning back to her own parchment. She missed the small smile that crossed his face and the slight frown that made its way across Eris's. But she'd looked into his eyes, even if it was just for a second, those disturbing blue eyes that'd held confusion and nothing else. No malice, no murderous intent, just... confusion. It was early in the morning, though, and shaping up to be an odd day. _Her _eyes were probably playing tricks on her.

* * *

Draco had Divination. He tried to remember which of his parents had "encouraged" him to take this class. His mother, probably. That was fine, it was easy enough. Although the incense in the North tower gave him a headache and he might've preferred Arithmancy, where the answers were definite and the grades weren't based on how dour a student's predictions were. At least that was how it went in Trelawney's class. Draco almost stopped walking as a thought hit him: _this wouldn't be Trelawney's class_. What if this teacher wasn't obsessed with doom? What was he going to do then? Well, the work, he supposed, to the best of his ability... 

Oh, he'd figure it out. Besides, even if he couldn't, he was sure his "cousins" would help him. In fact, Kerstan was showing him where the North tower was and telling him how to get to it from Slytherin at this very moment. He nodded at the appropriate moments, and thanked his uncle when he was done and they'd reach the narrow spiraling staircase that led up to the tower.

Eris was standing at the base of it, leaning against a wall and smiling at everyone that went by. "Isn't she going up?" Draco asked.

"She always goes up last," replied Kerstan nodding as they passed her.

"Oh," said Draco, heading up the stairs.

When they finally got to the top of the North tower (up the stairs, up the ladder, and through the trapdoor), Draco saw that the Divinations classroom was very much different in this time than in his. The small circular tables were still there, but they were covered with nondescript plain earthy colored cloths and surrounded by straight-backed dining chairs. The heavy perfume was gone; in its place was smoke that moved about the room mistily. The windows were covered with dark, heavy curtains so that the only light came from candles lit around the room and a fireplace, making everything look very warm and orangey. Breathing was easier, all told, and the counters and shelves around the room were arranged very neatly now and mostly covered with more of those cloths of varying shades of green and brown.

Draco took a seat at one of the tables near the door, next to Kerstan. "What is the Professor like?" Draco whispered softly, as they waited for the class to begin.

"Oh, she's... very organized," Kerstan replied. "Usually, this class's a crock, but Professor DeLay has some form of the practical Sight."

"Practical Sight?" Draco asked, raising an eyebrow.

Kerstan nodded, but before he could say anything Tom Riddle emerged from the trapdoor, followed, after a few seconds by another boy—one that bore passing resemblance to Tom, actually, and who Draco recognized from History of Magic, and Eris. Tom and other boy took their seats with Kerstan and Draco. Eris went further into the room and sat with, "A Ravenclaw, a Gryffie, and a Pufflehuff, pity more Slytherins don't choose to take this class," Kerstan muttered.

"Late again, Ms. Daw," came a voice from behind a thick orange curtain. A plumpish woman with red hair tucked into a neat bun stepped out from behind it. Green eyes regarded the class warmly from behind a pair of thick glasses that made them appear larger than usual. _A trademark of Divination teachers_? Draco wondered. Maybe peering into crystal balls and the like ruined their eyesight. "You let your fears inhibit you much too much."

Eris just nodded, as though this remark was par for the course. And Professor DeLay smiled and crossed her arms, eyes taking another sweep of the classroom. They ended up settling on Draco as she stated, with surprised delight, "A new student! Well, where did you come from? A Malfoy, are you?"

"Durmstrang and yes," Draco replied wondering at the attention. Professor Binns had done nothing like this. But the Divination class was much smaller than History of Magic had been, and Professor DeLay seemed much more interested in her students.

"What sort of Divination teacher did you have at Durmstrang?" she inquired, tilting her head to the side. "This is very important, I need to know what sort of instructing you've had up till now."

"Professor," Draco replied, slightly confused, "What do you mean 'what sort'?"

"Oh dear," Professor DeLay muttered, uncrossing her arms. "Not a very good one, apparently." She adjusted her glasses and then sat down behind her desk, crossing her legs under her large light brown skirts as she did so. "There are two types of Seers," Professor DeLay informed. "The Practical sort and the Prophets. Both are authorized to teach Divination lessons. I'm of the Practical bend," she said, with a broad smile. "I'm better at the mundane things, reading tea leaves and palms, crystal balls, astrology, predicting day to day events and suchlike. Occasionally I get a glimpse farther into the future, or the possible future—but just glimpses, and sometimes they don't come true—time _is _an odd thing, after all, well for us at least," she said.

"Prophets, on the other hand, are usually horrid at tea leaves and things. Their Gift is more sporadic, you see? They're very rare, and prophecies come to them at random, but always come true," she continued, lifting her right index finger, "They See time as an endless loop and therefore can divine future events precisely. We, however, see the future as branching out in a multitude of different directions with a million possibilities. For them it has already happened and for us it has yet to happen, and so, we are sometimes imprecise," she concluded with a, "Which sort did you have?"

"A prophet, I suppose," Draco replied, remembering that Trelawney had been horrible with tea leaves, and that according to his father, she'd been the one responsible for predicting Harry Potter.

"Dear, dear," Professor DeLay muttered. "I've much respect for their Gifts, of course, but they... don't always make excellent Divination teachers," she mumbled so softly he could barely hear her. "Ah, did your old teacher have a, well, a _fixation_ on true love or... doom, perhaps?" Professor DeLay asked, loudly.

Draco nodded and said, "Doom."

"Just as I feared," she stated, shaking her head. "Well, you'll just have to do your best to catch up, then. No more filling your charts with doom and gloom for A's—don't look so surprised, I know what you children do—yes, you'll have to take this class a bit more seriously," she tutted. "Then again, you wouldn't be here if you hadn't done at least decently on your O.W.L.S. They don't ask for much in Divination, I know, but you must still have some form of stronger Sight and basic knowledge of symbol recognition." Draco had, actually, done well in his Divination, which his mother _had_ been exceedingly happy about. He'd done well in most of his exams, better than most students, at least, which was why he'd been surprised at the amount of students in Binns's History class in this time. It was fairly empty in his. So was Divination, actually. He glanced around the room. There seemed to be about sixteen people occupying it.

"Well, that's enough of that then," Professor DeLay chirped, clapping her hands together. "Today we're doing more Advanced Crystal work, now clear your minds and remember, don't try to call the vision, just let it come..."

Draco cleared his mind, something that was fairly easy for him to do. He just called the state of mind he entered while playing Quidditch to the fore, and settled into his seat. The mist in the crystal swirled slightly, and within a few moments an image surfaced, although it was one unlike any he'd seen in a crystal ball before.

It was the silhouette of a large snake and a ferret-like creature. They were fighting and then the snake bit the ferret-thing, it fell over and died, and the snake dipped its head into the dead-thing's chest, pulled out its heart and ate it, before its shape transformed into that of a man. Draco's eyebrows shot up, and he noticed, as he tore his eyes away from the crystal ball that everyone in the classroom had had the same basic reaction.

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" asked the Ravenclaw boy that sat with them, whose name Draco didn't know.

"That Rudyard Kipling got Rikki Tikki Tavi wrong?" supplied Eris, from her table. A few chuckles went up around the room.

Professor DeLay's eyes widened behind her glasses. "You all saw the same vision?" she asked.

"A ferret getting killed by a snake?" asked someone from one of the tables on which no Slytherin sat.

"I thought it was a mongoose?" supplied someone from the other table.

"Very interesting," Professor DeLay muttered. "I'll have to look into this... continue with your crystal gazing," she ordered, as she disappeared behind her curtain again. The class shrugged almost collectively, before turning to each other and starting up whispered conversations that, for the most part had nothing to do with crystal gazing.

Draco had half an idea what the significance might be. Of the snake at least. He sat, half-waiting for Tom to say something, and Slytherin's heir didn't disappoint. "That was unusual," he stated, with a half-smile and a slight eyebrow furrow, before changing the subject smoothly. Draco nodded, and listened to the talk around him, waiting for the class to end.

* * *

Arithmancy went by rather smoothly for Hermione. Nadia seemed to be in all of her classes for the day, and a schedule comparison showed they were in all of the same classes every day, which meant Hermione had a friend. Sort of. Nadia was a bit odd sometimes; she brought a cloth to every class and spread it over her chair before sitting. She didn't much like coming in contact with the desks, and if, heaven forbid, she had to use the restroom she refused to use the normal ones, instead running to the Head's room. Minerva McGonagall was Head Girl, as Hermione had been happy to find out, and apparently the future Transfiguration teacher was incredibly accommodating, allowing Nadia to use her bathroom whenever she wished. 

Potions had gone well, Professor Bourdillon wasn't half as strict as Professor Snape, although she was just as demanding. Eris had come in late to that class, her excuse being that she'd "had Divination last", which, of course, hadn't stopped Draco, Kerstan or Tom from arriving on time. Professor Bourdillon just nodded at her almost sympathetically and urged her to hurry next time, which Eris promised she'd try to do.

Tom Riddle was still a bit of a, well, riddle to Hermione. He did well in his classes, he conversed well with other students, he smiled a lot, and even showed a bit of Gryffindor eyebrow furrowing confusion on occasion. He seemed to have a tendency to misplace things, eyes going wide and then closing as he slapped his forehead at having forgotten his copy of _Advanced Potions and Expert Elixirs_ in his dormitory. He didn't _seem_ very Dark-Lord-ish, which made Hermione very suspicious. How was it that the future, ruthless Dark Lord Voldemort threw _peas_ at people he didn't like during breakfast and _missed_?

The way she thought of it, though, she really didn't have to worry about him directly. Of course she could learn things about him, which might be of use back in the present, but she wouldn't have to talk to him at all. After all, she _was_, apparently friends with his friends, and talking to Tom Riddle might be dangerous since she was already on shaky ground in Slytherin, being that Amias knew she and Draco were liars. But Tom Riddle didn't have much to do with her plot to uncover the mysteries of time-travel.

The library did, and as soon as lunch came around she headed straight for it. Once there, she asked the librarian, whom she was surprised to note happened to be a rather young Madame Pince, who went by the name of Ms. Stryce now, where she might find books on time-travel. Ms. Stryce pointed her in the direction of a few shelves near the back of the library, and Hermione nodded, thanking her, and headed for the shelves.

Once there, she thanked heaven that there weren't any students having secret trysts in the area and scanned the shelves for appropriate books. One in particular hooked her attention. It was called, _Notes on the Practice of Traveling Through Time_. The author was a man named Warren Mumps, a name that seemed very familiar, but that she couldn't quite place. She pulled the rather slim volume off the shelf and opened it, turning past the titles to the first page.

One word decorated it, in bold capital letters it read: **_DON'T_**.

_Rather late for that_, Hermione thought idly, scanning the rest of the book only to find that the following pages were all blank. Brows knitted in a distinct lack of comprehension, she closed and reshelved the book. _Odd..._ Before pulling down various tomes on time travel theory and a few volumes on the science of time turners, which was rather rudimentary at this point, wizards delighting in the fact that they'd achieved the ability to go back whole _seconds_ in time. She frowned at her small stack and took it to one of the tables, ready to find whatever answers she could. She took out a parchment and a quill, opened the first book, and began reading...

* * *

While Hermione was in the library researching, Draco was in the Great Hall eating and discussing Quidditch brooms. His contribution to the conversation included a great many "wouldn't it be neat if..."s that were based on brooms from the "future". These were usually met with, "Of course, but they don't have anything like that yet"s. Draco wasn't much concerned with getting back to his own time, after he'd thought about it for a while; he'd realized that lots of people wanted to kill him there. Here, nobody wanted to kill him, which was, he believed, a marked improvement on his situation. 

Although, of course, he wouldn't _mind_ going back to his own time. He regarded it as something that he would do eventually, but wasn't in any hurry to accomplish. Not being part of or affiliated with the Order of the Phoenix, he didn't feel the same sense of urgency and compulsion to get back to their present and tell Dumbledore about everything he'd seen in regards to Voldemort that Hermione did. In fact, he didn't really feel any sense of urgency or compulsion at all and he didn't feel the need to do any research.

After all, he'd gotten stuck in the past with _Hermione Granger_ of all people. Unpleasant under most circumstances, but he was absolutely sure _she'd_ be researching—in fact, that was probably what she was doing right now instead of eating—and if _she_ figured a way to get back, and he had no doubt that she would eventually, that nice Gryffie _conscience_ of hers would prevent her from leaving Draco behind.

As far as he was concerned the situation was set, the problem solver on autopilot. All he had to do was sit back and enjoy where he was until the anal retentive mudblood figured out a way for them to get back. Life was easy when people were perfectly willing to do all of his work for him.

"The first real match is this weekend," Amias said. "We've got the practice field tomorrow night and throughout the week at seven, Draco, you need to come especially, being that you're new."

Draco nodded at this and asked, "Who are we playing?" he asked, before taking a sip of water.

"Gryffindor," Amias replied with a grimace. "Which is why I wish we could've gotten longer practices in, but Potter's booked the other time slots. He has new members he needs to train up too, I think."

"Potter?" Draco asked, almost choking on his water.

Amias raised an eyebrow. "Yes, Daniel, he's the captain of the Gryffindor team and the seeker... are you all right?"

Draco nodded and thought about that new information for a second. He'd be playing Quidditch against Harry Potter's grandfather? And why were all Harry's relatives seekers, was it some sort of family practice or something? "The name just sounded familiar for some reason," Draco replied.

"He is very good," Kerstan put in. "You'll just have to be better... Gryffindor's always been a great team, you know."

"I'll do my best," Draco assured.

"How did you like your first classes at Hogwarts?" Elaina asked, interrupting the conversation from her seat across from Amias. "You had History, Div, and Potions with Tom, Eris, and Kerstan, right?"

Draco nodded again. "Professor Bourdillon is a lot less severe than my old teacher," he replied, honestly, even though his old teacher had never been severe toward him. "Professor DeLay is much less insane—"

"Really?" Elaina asked, brows shooting up. "Your old Divination teacher was _more_ insane than DeLay?"

"They're all a bit batty if you ask me," Kerstan muttered.

"I guess they must be," Draco said with yet another nod. "Professor Binns was boring, but good to nap through."

"He is _now_."—that from Tom Riddle, who took a sip of water. "He used to be a lot more..."

"Fun?" Ardennes Snape supplied, jumping into the conversation.

"Alive," Eris said, her tone almost wistful. "Now it's like they've sucked out his soul, he looks so destroyed." She made a claw with her hand during the first half of her statement and dropped it dismally along with her face and voice at the second.

"Well," piped up Veronica Crabbe, "It really is his fault, what with all that nonsense about the Chamber and the Founders. Our parents were right to come down on him the way they did."

"Your parents," Tom corrected. "And they were rather harsh, I think."

"Indulging children and creating mass hysteria?" Terrence piped up in his rather high-pitched squeal.

Eris glanced at him and tilted her head to the left. "Mass... hys...teria?"

"It wasn't as bad as all that," Elaina argued, glaring at her cousin. "He just answered our questions to the best of his ability."

"Well," Veronica said, tilting her head in the air. "My mother says he shouldn't have."

"And of course your mother's the authority on these things," Kerstan muttered sarcastically.

Veronica didn't catch the sarcasm and replied blithely, "I'm glad you agree, have you met my mother?"

Kerstan shook his head, an action that seemed almost painful for him. "Where's your Durmstrang friend Harmony?" he asked Draco, changing the subject.

"She's not really my friend," Draco replied unable to keep the disdain out of his voice. "But I'll bet anything she's in the library."

"She did seem the bookish type," Nadia said nodding her approval.

"Did you _see_ all those notes she took in History?" Eris asked disdain evident in her voice as well. "Honestly, it looked like she was intent on copying every word that left his mouth. All that ridiculousness about greedy goblins and such."

"I'll bet _she_ won't be near-failing most of her classes this year, though," Tom put in meanly.

Eris glared back at him, "You're such a—"

But they never found out what Tom was, because just then the Gryffindor first years ran from their table screaming, their skin turning a blotchy purple as they went. And Tom swore, standing up and going to where a bunch of Slytherin second years sat laughing raucously. He glared at them angrily and started giving them a talking to, although Draco couldn't hear a word he said it seemed severe, as the lot of them went pale. _Voldemort_, Draco thought, as he watched the complete and utter fear on their faces as Tom spoke to them quietly and coldly. Professor Bourdillon joined him shortly, and the second years paled even more. Draco wondered at this, though. A Slytherin prefect telling off students from his own house for playing tricks on Gryffindorks?

"The younger students are so _stupid_," Kerstan was muttering. "Who puts these ideas into their heads anyway?"

"Don't know," Elaina said, "Slytherin tradition, I suppose. Although it's bloody moronic if you ask me. They never stop to consider that they might need something from the Gryffies somewhere down the line do they?"

"Course not," Amias replied, "They're... amateurs."

"This house gets stupider and stupider every year," Elaina complained.

"Well, it was that way before we got here..." Amias reasoned.

"Yes, but now it's regressing."

"Unfortunately," Kerstan muttered. And Draco stared at them in shock.

"I thought Slytherins hated Gryffindors?" he asked, innocently, like a know-nothing Durmstrang student would.

"Oh yes," replied Kerstan derisively, "But it'd be bloody stupid to _show_ it."

Eris was waving at a distraught seventeen-year-old Minerva McGonagall, who was trying to get the first years in her house to calm down across the room. Minerva waved back, and smiled as Eris mouthed the words "need help?" Minerva nodded emphatically and Eris got up, said "Duty calls," and left.

"Life is much easier when more people like you than hate you," Amias said with a shrug. "Simple fact, really, but the fourth years and down don't seem to get it. Fifth years are usually fine, though," he finished with a shrug. "Usually."

"I'm a third year," Terrence complained.

"Yes and you're an idiot," Elaina countered, shutting up her younger cousin.

Draco watched as Tom came back to their area looking endearingly exasperated, all traces of Voldemort gone from his manner, and shivered internally. Dumbledore was really the only person in this time that suspected anything? The young Malfoy looked up towards the Head Table, where an autumn haired Albus Dumbledore sat, frowning at the Slytherins, and then back at Tom Riddle, who was mumbling something about stupid kids, and blinked.

Confusing. And slightly scary. But that was all right. At least no one was trying to kill him. No one expected anything of him. No one was going to try to tell him what to do or what to say or what to think. None of his friends would put behavioral expectations on him based on the way he'd acted in the past. A very unwelcome thought wormed his way into his brain, and he took a sip of water in an attempt to suppress it, but it wormed on despite his attempt to drown it. It was a simple, but frightening three-letter word:

_Yet._

"Is it true that they put an emphasis on the Dark Arts at Durmstrang?" Kerstan asked, inclining his head slightly. "And that they only allow purebloods?"

Draco nodded, trying to recall things he'd heard about the school and then remembered the mudblood. If it was ever found out that she wasn't a pureblood it might not just be _her_ neck if he didn't provide a loophole here. "But sometimes they allow halfbloods in, although those are very rare exceptions and only tend to happen for students with very rich parents," and that was true as well. He'd heard stories from distant relatives, most of which ended in lynchings or expulsions or the said halfblood giving up, dropping out, and moving to a different school. A halfblood at Durmstrang was like a werewolf at Hogwarts. It happened sometimes, rarely, and if the offender was ever found out by the rest of the student body...

"Which is why Hogwarts has always been the superior school," Elaina declared.

Kerstan raised an eyebrow at her.

"Yes," Eris agreed, returning to her seat at the table once the Gryffies had been settled, "Do you have any idea how long Durmstrang went without indoor plumbing?"

Draco almost didn't know what to think. She was trying to defend muggles, and in their defense the best contribution they'd made to wizarding society was, that she could think of... but the statement was considered, digested, and then finally Kerstan replied, "Muggle invention, was it? Figures they'd think up the best ways to transport err..." he glanced at his food and finished with a lame, "you know."

"Yes and thank you for bringing that up during a meal, Kers," Amias muttered, pushing around gravy brown potatoes with his fork. "Very nice."

"Well, I do try," Kerstan replied with a bright smile that was so fake it might as well have been cardboard.

And then almost before he knew it lunch was over. The Slytherins scattered to their classes. Because the Arts and Music class he was supposed to have this period didn't exist yet, Draco had Spell Theory with Nadia, Eris, and Tom next. The seventh years all had Transfiguration and there was some derisive mumbling about "Dumbly-bore-us" before they all left, Draco heard Eris tell Amias, "Oh, it was nice of you to show Harmony the library."

To which Amias replied with a slightly confused, "I didn't."

"I'm sorry, Nadia must have."

"Yes, I'm sure."

The next time he saw Hermione she was passing them in the hall as they made their way to Professor Delduf's classroom and she made her way to whatever it was she had next. Unless he was reading her expression and body language wrong she looked remarkably distressed. Her hair was frazzled (then again, when wasn't it?) her shoulders were slumped and the look on her face was absolutely dour. Didn't find anything yet, then, he supposed. No matter, he hadn't expected her to solve the problem on her first day. She hadn't even gone into the Restricted Section yet. She would have to, eventually of course. Draco didn't really care how much time she took to do it, so long as she did it. Preferably sometime before they turned eighteen, but he wasn't going to be picky.

"What do they teach in Theory anyway?" he asked Eris as they entered the room.

"Oh, you know," she said, weakly. "Theory and... things."

"It's a sort of miscellaneous class," Tom interjected smoothly sounded vaguely annoyed at Eris's explanation. "Delduf covers things related to arts, spellwriting, music, and basic theories having to do with other subjects."

"Yes," stated Eris, sounding very annoyed. "_Theory and things_."

Nadia turned to him now and said with some small surprise, "This is a N.E.W.T. level class, how can you be in it if you've never had it before? You can't possibly have this class unless you've gotten your O.W.L."

Draco shrugged. "I had an Arts and Music class at Durmstrang," he replied, "Theory is the closest thing they have here, so they must've had to make an exception."

Nadia's eyes widened and her mouth formed a perfectly horrified "O" at this information. "But you can't—"

"An Arts and Music class would have to cover a lot of the things we cover in Theory," Eris reasoned calmly reassuring her friend. "In fact, I'm sure it's probably just the very same class with a different name. That happens a lot, doesn't it?"

"Yes," Draco replied hoping he didn't sound too hasty about it.

This information seemed to slightly placate Nadia, but she still glanced sideways at him a few times before saying, "Perhaps Delduf should give him a test..."

"Nadia," Tom said, charming smile in place. "It's _theory_ we cover the same basic concepts every year just in different variations and from different points of view—the only part that really changes is the Arts and Music, so I'm sure he won't hold up the class too much."

"I suppose not," Nadia assented finally.

Draco was slightly offended by this. Theory wasn't a class that existed in the future so it wasn't exactly his fault he'd never taken it. Besides, Eris and Tom probably knew what they were talking about. Arts and Music couldn't be so different. Theory would probably be a piece of cake.

Ten minutes later he found out they were very, very wrong.

"HelloI'mProfessorDeldufIteachSpellTheorywhichisaboutexplainingthingslikeswishesinwandwavingyouknowhowsomeCharms  
spellscallforaspecialswishmotionsuchastheswishandflickinthelevitatingspellmuchlikecounterclockwisestirringinpotionsit'susedto  
negatetheeffectthatwouldnormallyhappenforinstanceafeatherwouldnormallyfalltothegroundandarsenicwouldnormallykillaperson  
whichiswhatthedarkartsaremeanttodoharmpeoplethatisandhappyfeelingsareusedindefensivemagictocounterthenightmarishharmful  
qualitythatthedarkartstendtohaveandthesespellsusuallyutilizevariationsonLatinwordswhichbringsmebacktomydiscussiononold  
GreekdeitieswhichI'msureErisistiredofandtheusuallyaptnomenclatureofthewizardingworldalthoughtheymust'vegotitwrongwith  
hernamebutMinervaMcGonagallforonehasaveryaptnamebeingthatshewascoinedaftertheGoddessofWisdomandsheistheHeadGirl  
althoughIdon'tthinksheevertookthisclasswhichisapitybecauseI'veheardshe'sverycleverandthisisaclassthatrequiressomecleverness  
justlikeAncientRunesIsupposewhicharealsousedinsomespellsmostlythosehavingtodowiththephysicalformofenchantmentssuchas  
speciallocksandillusionsandinvisibilityandthingssuchasinvisibilitycloakswhicharereallymadeasasortofcombinationbetweenRunic  
magicthatbeingthesymbolanddesignpatternontheclothitselfwhichmusthavemagicalpropertiesinthefirstplaceandofcoursecharmswork  
althoughinvisibilitycanalsobeachievedbyspecialpotionswhichareofcoursestirredcounterclockwisesothattheynegatethenormaleffect  
ofvisibilityhoweverasmalloffshootofthissciencedoesregardinvisibilityasthenaturalstateandvisibilityastheaberrationandsoofcoursethe  
spellisverymuchdifferentwhichissomethingthathappensalotincharmsaswellgoingbacktotheinternalstructureofspellmakingbutthat'snot  
intoday'slessonplanatleastIdon'tthink..." he finally stopped to take a breath here. "What was I talking about?"

He was an absolute madman. Draco knew it was impossible for that much to have been said in one breath and that, in reality, it must've been at least two or three—still that wasn't the way it_ seemed_. And the entire class went on in this fashion. First he'd be talking about one thing and then another thing and then his Uncle who'd once lived in Romania and then garlic's use in potions and then the word _odor_'s usage in spell work and all of it went by almost too fast to catch.

Draco's mind struggled to keep up. He tried taking notes, wondering if he'd be able to organize them later and ended up just jotting down the bits he could catch, although_ they_ didn't make much sense. Arts and Music weren't even touched on in the day's lesson!

Although there _were_ drawings and sketches and things around the room, in some the subject stayed stationary, in others he she or it moved. There were also a few sculptures, again some which were animated and some which were not, and random sheets of music strewn about the floor. Nothing in the room was very organized. Things seemed to have been thrown carelessly at the shelves instead of placed neatly, portraits were crooked as though someone had _begun_ hanging them, gotten sidetracked and moved on to something else. The blackboard was filled with half started sentences, fragmented phrases, random words, half written words, and sometimes single letters that had nothing to do with any of the other scribbles around them.

The class ended rather quickly, or perhaps it'd just seemed that way due to the Professor's rapid-fire teaching method. A four-foot long paper on wand waving was assigned, and Draco supposed that was what the Professor had talked about the most, although he didn't really understand what he was supposed to be writing the paper about. Perhaps the effect that the swish of his wand would have on a butterfly in Thailand.

He must've looked more dumbstruck coming out of Delduf's Theory than he thought, because Nadia frowned at him and said quite sharply, "Do you see? He's not ready to tackle N.E.W.T. level Theory!"

"I think it's Delduf that's got him reeling not the subject itself," Tom replied. "He can be a bit ah confusing sometimes. The best thing to do is just write down everything you hear and try to make sense of it afterwards," he finished with a sympathetic shrug. "And don't worry about the essay."

"Huh?" Draco asked, sounding, and looking even stupider after being on the receiving end of kindly offered help from _Voldemort_.

Tom smiled. "By the time you have to turn it in he'll have forgotten about assigning it. So if you do it, you'll actually be wasting a lot of ink and parchment for nothing."

The corners of Nadia's mouth sunk drastically at this pronouncement. "But the research is still important! How is he to understand the concept if he doesn't do the research."

"Nobody said he didn't have to do the research," Tom replied his voice bearing a sort of mollifying silkiness. "That part is still important; it's the actual writing that he needn't do."

"I suppose that's all right," stated Nadia agreeing. She then turned a critical eye on Draco. "Did you catch the first part of his lesson?" she asked.

"He lost me at 'Hello, I'm Professor Delduf'," Draco confessed, "but I think I got most of it written down."

"See," Tom said, gesturing toward Draco. "He knows how to pass the class instinctively, he'll do fine."

"You're right, I think," Nadia said, the frown on her face growing with every passing second. "I suppose he must be somewhat intelligent. He is, after all in most of our classes isn't he? Which means he must've gotten O.W.L.S. in all of them, which means he can't be stupid."

"Of course he isn't stupid," Eris beamed, touching his arm. "He's very smart, aren't you?"

"Um..."

"Amazing," Tom muttered, whirling on her. "You never _stop_ do you?"

The space between her eyebrows decreased dramatically, and the insides of them dipped a bit above her nose while her lips puckered very slightly and she said, her voice the very example of absolute confusion, "Stop what?"

"Being you," Tom replied. Draco wondered sometimes whether his standard tone was annoyance.

Eris stopped walking abruptly, which caused Nadia to knock into her back and Draco to bump into her arm. Tom turned to face her. It took her a while to find the right response. That was apparently what the stop for, and as soon as she'd gotten it she started walking again. "I don't think the problem is exactly with me being me. It's more a case of you being you, you really should try to avoid that as much as possible." Draco almost felt sorry for her what with her late reaction. Almost.

"Why is my being me a problem? Last I checked I wasn't the whore."

"Oh, ouch, Tom, you know that would really hurt if I didn't know you were just jealous about the fact that you can't get a date—"

"Just because I choose not to at the moment doesn't mean I can't, and at least _I'm _not going after Amias's bloody cousin who's been here, what? Fifty hours? That's not even—"

"The old 'choose not to' excuse? God that's weak, Tom, even for you, why don't you just admit that no one wants to be seen with a stupid orphan. Honestly Tommy dearest, where _do_ you come from? Which was she a beggar or a prostitute?"

"At least she wasn't a madwoman."

"But you wouldn't know would you?"

"That would make me really angry if I didn't know that you only feel the need to strike out at people because your father never loved you."

"Dear, and _that_ would make me angry if I didn't know that you fixate on fathers because yours _abandoned you_."

The argument stopped for a moment, and Draco was about to suggest that they hurry to Herbology. Both combatants were already fingering their wands, and he was just noticing that it was a very narrow hallway and, remembering the pea that'd popped into Hermione's forehead, recalled that Tom's aim left something to be desired.

"You know, _that's_ the only reason people like you though, don't you?" Tom asked coldly. "It's disgusting."

"What is? The fact that I have more friends than you?"

"The fact that you exploit yourself to get other people to exploit you, it's repulsive."

"Oh, so now I'm a _repulsive_ whore, well I suppose that's bad for the trade isn't it?" she quipped. "What or who I do is absolutely none of your business anyway, why are you so interested?"

"Because Amias is my friend."

"Such a good friend you _punched him_?"

"He swung first."

"Oh, so now you're _such_ good friends he's trying to hit you?"

"It wasn't about that."

"Really?"

Tom glanced at Draco and then he fixed Eris with another of his glacial stares. "Amias was _your_ friend too, last _I_ checked." And with that he turned and began walking toward Herbology briskly.

Eris just narrowed her eyes after him. It might've been Draco's imagination but she looked like she was shaking slightly. She turned on her heel after this, and began walking back the way they'd come. Students were already coming down the hall for the next Theory lesson. And Draco called after her, "Herbology is this way," to which she replied with a disgruntled "I know" and disregarded him almost completely.

"Uh," Draco mumbled, turning to Nadia. "Was this my fault?"

"No," she replied, patently having gotten over her anger at the fact that he was in a N.E.W.T. level class that he hadn't gotten an O.W.L. for. "If you hadn't been here they would've found something else to argue about. Tom probably just used Amias as a cop-out so he wouldn't be late for Charms," she said matter-of-factly. "And if we don't start walking _we'll_ be late." Nadia said, setting forward at a pace that quickened with every step. "By the way," she asked, as Draco struggled to keep up. "Are you interested in her?"

"Honestly," Draco replied, Nadia nodded, although it hadn't really been a question. "No... She's a halfblood, right?" he paused. "Is she interested in me?"

"Honestly?" Nadia asked. Draco nodded. "I don't know. Probably not. She's been treating you like she treats all her male friends. Tom was just looking for something to snipe at her about. She does it to him too _all the time_ sometimes it's handwriting, sometimes it's the books they read, the music they like, the clothes they wear, the way they walk, the state of their hair. Whatever happens to be convenient."

"Always?"

"Well more often than appears sane."

"And she's always so flirty?"

"She doesn't really think of it as being flirty," Nadia shrugged. "She thinks of it as being friendly."

Draco's eyes widened slightly. A group of third year Hufflepuffs was staring at him as they passed each other in the corridor, making him slightly uncomfortable. "So then why didn't she just say she wasn't actually—?"

"I'm assuming it has something to do with pride."

"Oh." Nadia was apparently a veritable treasure trove of information. Assuming everything she'd said wasn't just a load of bollocks, although it most certainly didn't seem that way given her delivery.

"What about your non-friend?" she asked.

"Rush?"

"Comma Harmony, yes."

Draco took a step away from Nadia. "What about her?"

"Is she more your type?" the odd bookish Slytherin sixth year pureblood asked.

"No!" was Draco's emphatic reply.

"Interesting."

* * *

Hermione'd had Ancient Runes with Kerstan, although she hadn't spoken to him much during the class. She hadn't really been in the mood for speech. There hadn't been anything helpful in any of the books she'd checked out. Of course, she'd just skimmed them and hadn't exactly peered at every word sentence and paragraph, but from what she'd seen they weren't likely to have anything to offer. She'd have to look them over at night, after her Astronomy lesson. And she'd have to find something soon. Because if Voldemort was near Hogwarts... if he could get that close undetected, and worse, if he was already initiating students... Harry was in grave danger. 

"You don't like me very much," said Eris suddenly appearing right next to her.

Hermione was taken aback and could only manage to say, "What?"

"Oh, don't worry, it doesn't bother me," Eris replied, blinking in that vacant way she did. Then her eyes went up and squinched slightly, as though she was attempting to look into her brain. "Well, not much at any rate. The others like you, you know."

"Oh?" stated Hermione, wondering how best to pop the pesky bubblehead. "That's nice."

"Yes," Eris replied, apparently not catching the hint. "Nadia thinks you're quite clever, and Amias showed you where the Headmaster's office and the common room and the library and things were, and Elaina says you're very nice."

"Nadia's quite clever herself, and Amias is very chivalrous, and Elaina seems nice as well," Hermione replied with a nod, hoping that would end the conversation.

"Chivalrous," Eris repeated, matching Hermione step by step. "That's a lovely word; does it mean the same thing as polite?"

"Almost," answered Hermione, increasing her pace.

Eris didn't falter or fall behind. "That would be a good word for him then," she said with a smile. "Chivalrous, it sounds almost Gryffindor."

Hermione almost frowned. Eris was cutting into her meditative time, she had to keep thinking about ways to get back to where she was supposed to be, so she could alert Dumbledore and make sure Harry stayed alive.

"You weren't in Divination," said Eris absently.

"I don't much care for the predictive arts," Hermione stated blandly.

Eris nodded. "Not many people do, they say they're much too... what's the word?"

"Imprecise," Hermione supplied tersely. "What class do you have next?"

"Herbology," said Eris, small smile decorating her face, "same as you I'm sure."

_Unfortunately_. "Yes."

"We've been working with belladonna," she murmured.

"Deadly nightshade?" Hermione asked for confirmation.

"Well, that's what it is." A pause "Isn't it?" Eris asked, brows furrowing slightly, before she shook her head and said, "Today we're going to pluck the leaves and prepare them for use in potions."

"That's nice."

Because of the pace Hermione had set they ended up being two of the first students to the greenhouse. Nadia was already there, and it appeared she'd brought her own gloves. Thick things that went all the way up to her shoulders, making her arms look tan and coarse like cowhide.

"Is that—?" Hermione asked.

"Dragon leather? Probably, she's got layers underneath, though, linen and then latex below that," Eris supplied. "Never can be too careful, right, Nadia?"

The other girl nodded. "You don't know what's touched these plants while we haven't been watching them," she said, "or those gloves Professor Leif hands out." She seemed to shudder at that, and cast a wary glance toward the cupboard.

"I know what you mean," replied Eris sincerely. "There was a spider in mine once—ruddy good thing I shook it out before putting it on."

Other students were filing in, and Nadia seemed to be occupying Eris's attention. Once again, Hermione thanked God for her and moved to a table at the other end of the greenhouse. "I remember that," Nadia was saying, "You wouldn't come back in here for days until—"

"Tom transfigured my hairpin into a spider while I was standing outside," Eris finished, Hermione couldn't see her expression, but she could guess at it. "Now I can't wear _anything_ in my hair..."

More students were coming into the greenhouse, and Hermione noticed that everyone split off into pairs. Draco was working with Kerstan. Eris and Nadia were working together. Tom Riddle's partner seemed to be a Ravenclaw, and there were two more Ravenclaws off to her right, and a pair of Hufflepuffs to her left. She bit her bottom lip and sought out the Professor, who turned out to be an incredibly short, stout woman. "Professor Leif?" Hermione asked, trying her best not to look down at the Professor, who was a few inches shorter than Eris and was incredibly hard to see between the rows of plants.

"Yes? Do you need something?" the Professor asked, picking up a trowel and a small bucket.

"I'm the new student," Hermione replied, "Which table should I go to?"

Professor Leif seemed to think about this for a moment, before climbing onto a well-placed crate and looking around the room. "Eris?" she called, "You're here aren't you?"

"Yes, Professor Leif," Eris replied, raising her hand and waving it around a bit so that the Professor could see her over the potted pink flowered plant that obscured the Professor's view.

"Hmm," the Professor muttered. "I suppose you can work with Eris and Nadia, then, everyone's partnered up... you were talking to them earlier, yes?"

"Yes," Hermione answered, feeling slightly sick.

"Good then, they're over there," Professor Leif said smiling and pointing. Hermione nodded and went in the direction indicated.

Nadia's table happened to be next to Tom Riddle's (of course) and the Slytherin girls had arranged themselves in such a way that Hermione was actually forced to stand next to him. She shifted uncomfortably as the gloves were passed out. "Stuck with us?" Eris asked as she held her pair of gloves by the middle fingertip and shook them furiously. "Poor dear."

"Yes, you should watch out," Tom added, "She has a tendency to think fingers look like roots," he made a slicing motion and Eris winced.

"As I recall _you_ were the one that almost took off poor Bram's pinky."

"Only because you knocked into me!"

"I didn't even _touch _you!"

"Yes you did, you hit my arm and knocked me over to one side," Tom replied, demonstrating the way he'd stumbled.

"No, you tripped over yourself while you were trying to grab the—"

"Hey!" Bram shouted, waving his hand. "My finger's fine, all right see?" he bent it backward and forward and to demonstrate that the digit was in excellent working condition. "There's no need to argue over it, besides it was over a month ago and it barely got nicked in the first place—"

"But it could've been worse," Eris muttered poutingly. "Not to say that I'm not glad it wasn't," she added quickly at his expression.

"Could you pass me the drying plate?" Nadia, who had, all the while, been picking leaves off the bush on the table in front of them, was now holding in impatient gloved hand in across Eris and dangling in front of Hermione.

Hermione picked up a large metal tray and passed it over. "Here," she offered uncertainly.

"Nadia!" exclaimed Eris. "How many times have I told you, you can't just do all the work yourself!"

Nadia shrugged pragmatically. "You seemed busy."

"Don't be ridiculous, next time hit me," replied Eris as she helped Nadia arrange the leaves on the tray. Hermione wanted to help, but there was nowhere her hands could go without hindering Eris's progress, and so she stood watching. Tom and Bram had already gone back to their work in picking and arranging leaves, and so their area was basically silent, conversations of other groups humming in the background.

Finally, the leaves were all set, covering the tray, and Eris kneeled down and pulled a large glass cover from under the table. Hermione helped her lift it, because it looked as though it might crush her, and then the three of them set it over the tray. Eris pulled out her wand, tapped it against the metal, and said something that Hermione couldn't hear. The tray glowed an incredibly faint orange and Nadia smiled. "Wonderful, they should be ready for crushing at least fifteen minutes before class over, which gives us plenty of time."

On the table next to them, Bram and Tom's tray was giving off the same tangerine light, and Eris leaned forward to see past Hermione. "Bram?" she called.

"Yeah?" Bram answered, leaning forward to see past Tom.

"How did Cody do in the Junior League Champs?" asked Eris, careful not to touch the tray. "I heard they won?"

"Yes!" Bram said, so excited he hit the cover on his tray lightly. He cast an apologetic look at Tom, who fixed the tray and then shrugged. "He was great. He'll make an excellent keeper when he gets to Hogwarts."

"He's coming next year isn't he?" Tom asked.

Bram nodded. "It's a pity I won't get to see him play."

"That's not true," Tom pointed out, "You can always visit."

"I'm not sure it'll be the same though," Bram said with a shrug.

Eris smiled. "Don't worry, it'll be probably be better—you'll still be able to cheer for him even if he doesn't get sorted into Ravenclaw."

"Very true," Bram said, "He doesn't seem like Ravenclaw material does he?"

"Only met him once," Eris replied, "But he seemed like he'd make an excellent Gryffindor. And one of the good ones, not one of the bleh ones either." She grimaced and nodded toward a table at the far side of the room where two girls were conversing. They saw Eris nod toward them and waved back happily causing the grimace to immediately turn into a broad smile, wave, and pained look at Tom which elicited returning nods of understanding and sympathetic looks.

"You're horrible," Tom muttered, glancing between Eris and the girls.

"Coming from you I'll take that as a compliment," she replied. "Anyway, Bram, what are your plans for your share of the Zabini fortune? You're inheriting seventh year aren't you?"

"A portion of it, yes," Bram said with a shrug. "I'm probably going to stick it all in Gringotts and collect interest on it. The money's actually supposed to be a test on how I handle gold, so my father can figure out whether he should disown me or pass the fortune on to my younger brother instead."

"Ridiculous, you're obviously the one best suited for management," said Eris. "The Ministry'll probably try to recruit you right out of Hogwarts! Besides you wouldn't waste it on anything—and you could donate and do charity work like you always wanted."

"To my father that is the very _definition_ of mismanagement," Bram muttered with a frown.

"Well, at least you _get_ a chance to squander your family fortune doing good," Nadia said smoothly as she checked the nightshade leaves. "I don't get anything. I'm the oldest, but I'm not the right gender for primogeniture to apply and my family is very old fashioned, as you know."

"Then I suppose you'll just have to show what's what by making your own fortune," Tom reasoned. "I'm sure you could do it."

"Of course," Nadia replied, replacing the cover on the heating tray. "I've already got plans in mind to build a better broomstick."

The conversation went on to wood and straw and weight and air resistance and questions about muggle vs. magical physics and the spells that might be applied to a magical broom to lessen wind resistance and quicken speed while still keeping steady and then on and on... Hermione tuned it out. If none of the regularly accessible books in the library had anything that was of any help to her she might have to look in the Restricted Section. But she'd need a note for that, and who could she get one from? The Headmaster seemed to have some idea what was going on. He'd mentioned time travel and... and something else that she couldn't quite remember...

"...problem with most Gryffindors is that they're too bloody _epic_, everything is ultimately dire life or death the well-being of the whole universe hinging on whether they put their hair up or not. Slytherins don't have that problem—"

"Right, you're too personal, you slim everything down to 'just between you and me', you spend so much time on particulars you fail to see the bigger picture."

"And you Ravenclaws are absolutely perfect, aren't you?"

"Of course not, we spend too much time on thinking and not enough on doing, I'll probably die doing research."

"At least you're intellectually honest."

"No, now you're thinking of Hufflepuffs."

"You know we must've had this conversation a million times before and we always end with Hufflepuffs?"

"Oh don't talk about Hufflepuffs, my younger brother will probably be a Hufflepuff in three years when he gets to this school, it's a nightmare just thinking about the fact that he's going to inherit."

"How is he though, Nad? Last I heard he was having some attention problem?"

"He's got the mumps now, father's scared sick he'll turn out sterile because of it."

_Mumps._Warren Mumps. As in _"My real name is Warren—" But_ that would be completely and utterly insane. As though going back in time fifty-four years and standing next the boy who would grow up to be the Dark Lord Voldemort wasn't. Peas. She suppressed a shudder. A time-traveling Warren. An apparently delusional Headmaster who'd started to _say_ his name was Warren... there could be a chance, he might know something, and he might let her into the restricted section at the very least. Thank God for Nadia.

"I think they're done. Nad? They're turning sort of brown, does that mean they're done?" Nadia nodded and removed the glass cover. Eris grabbed it and struggled to stick it under the table again while Nadia tapped the tray and muttered something, causing the orange glow to fade away again.

"Mortars and pestles?" Nadia asked, looking toward Hermione. "There are only two, but I suppose—"

"We've got extras," Tom interrupted, handing the tools over.

Hermione took them almost hesitantly. "Thank you."

"Happy to help," Tom smiled.

"Right. The rest should be near you, Minnie," Eris said, lifting her right arm and pointing.

"Minnie?" Tom repeated as Hermione pulled up two mortars and pestles.

"Well what should I call her?" asked Eris, taking her tools and passing the others to Nadia. "Harm? Money?"

Tom was helping Bram split their dried leaves into two piles, stopped for a second and said, "Perhaps you should ask her what she wants to be called, _Err_."

"Oh hell, Harmony, do you take issue with the name 'Minnie'?"

_Yes. _"I don't know."

"There, see she doesn't," Eris said, shaking her pestle at Tom.

He shook his head and stuffed a handful of leaves into his mortar. "She probably does and doesn't want to offend you."

"That's your pile," Nadia stated, leaning forward so she could better see Harmony and pointing at a pile on the drying plate.

Hermione nodded and gathered the leaves, putting them into her mortar as Eris did the same. "Do you really dislike the nickname?" Eris asked. The snake around her neck flicked its tail and turned its head toward Hermione expectantly.

"Well, I'm not sure that I like it all that much," Hermione replied, crushing the leaves in her mortar.

"I told you," said Tom in a sort of gleefully self-assured lilt.

Eris looked as though she'd swallowed a bushel of lemons and refused to turn to her left, putting more emphasis into her crushing. "Then what would you like to be called?" she asked, the sweetness in her voice at complete odds with the venomous ferocity in her hands.

"My friends used to call me Herm," Hermione replied hesitantly, hating the nickname, but knowing she couldn't get away with stating her real one.

"Did they have speech impediments?" Eris asked. It was an odd thing, how the syrupy quality in her voiced increased with the acidic quality in her words.

"One did, yes," replied Hermione, lying through her teeth and grinding her leaves the harder for it.

"Poor thing," muttered Eris, turning finally and offering a bright smile that Hermione didn't feel the need to return in full. A quirk of her lips was the only response and Eris seemed to feel shunted.

Nadia was already pulling vials from a small drawer at her end of the table she handed a few of them down. Hermione's dried leaves weren't all dust yet, so she kept grinding. To her left, Eris folded a small card and laid it in front of her before emptying the contents of her mortar onto it. The tiny particles caught in the crease, and made it easier for her to empty them into the vial. To her right, Tom was carefully levitating his clump into the vial—no easy task being that he had to keep track of every individual particle for as long as it was in the air. Hermione had to stop herself from dropping her mortar and watching him work. It was amazing, it looked easy and it seemed small, but even she couldn't...

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Eris pour some of the belladonna into a small pouch under the table. The snake around her neck hissed softly at this and she shushed it gently, while tying up the pouch and shoving it into her coat pocket. Nadia didn't seem to notice any of this as she was examining the contents of her vial intently. Hermione wondered vaguely if she should say something and tried to remember the things she knew about deadly nightshade.

_Atropa__ belladonna._It was poisonous, that was the first and most obvious of its qualities that she could recall. The leaves and roots held a toxic chemical called atropine, which was used as a muscle relaxant...

She watched as Eris put a stopper in her vial, her snake still hissing, but louder now, it sounded almost angry. Eris patted it on the head, soothing it and mumbling some nonsense about how it made it impossible to wear scarves, did it know that? And that she used to look quite good in scarves, thank you very much, there was this lovely black one with silver trim that her mother'd given her for Christmas when she was ten and she did so want to wear it instead of a bloody snake—yes you bloody snake, now why don't you go back to your master, see, he's right there. No? I don't blame you; he is horrible isn't he? There was another angry hiss here, and the snake's tail hit her back lightly. "Ouch," Eris muttered.

That snake was much too intelligent for Hermione's comfort. And one of her classmates was apparently nicking a poisonous substance. Hermione frowned. "Are you all right, Ms. Rush?"

It took her a second to realize that Professor Leif was talking to her and another to make her reply. "Yes, Professor, just a bit tired." Professor Leif nodded and walked away, disappearing between the rows of tables and Hermione half kicked herself. That would've been the moment to tell Professor Leif that Eris was stealing belladonna. If she'd been going to, which, now that she thought about it she really hadn't. Her first thought had been to confront the other girl about it later, although now that she thought about it that wasn't something she really wanted to do either. But she couldn't just forget about it, could she?

Of course not. No proper Gryffindor would.

* * *

Draco was grinning like an idiot almost all throughout dinner. He'd started up a conversation with Nadia and realized her burning desire to make a better, faster, broomstick with smoother handling. And what was she planning to call this magnificent creation of hers? That was right. The Nimbus. He couldn't help it. He gushed like a five year old at Christmas time, because from what he thought he was hearing... this woman would become part of the design team that created one of the most revolutionary broomsticks ever mass produced. He wanted to hear absolutely everything he could about her ideas for better brooming. Of course, the mechanics she talked about were used in the early Nimbus models, the first one to be particular. But those mechanics would be improved over time—he didn't exactly know how, he was no technician, but the point was that they'd eventually evolve into his beautiful Nimbus 3500, whose amazing speed and maneuverability could never be close to matched on the old Comet mindset. 

So while he had absolutely no idea what she was saying, he knew it was profound. Life changing. And she wanted to change lives. Why a better racing broom? Because everyone plays Quidditch. Everyone watches Quidditch. If Nadia was going to make a fortune and if that fortune were going to mean anything to her father it would be through Quidditch, a sport he loved dearly. She'd succeed in a field he failed and while all of this she stated explicitly there wasn't one bit of it that he really cared about. What he cared about was that in this girl's marvelous brain was the prototype that would lead to his marvelous broomstick and that made her marvelous.

He did have time to notice things though. That the mudblood seemed more troubled than she had at the beginning of Herbology. That at some point or other in every conversation any of the group of Slytherins he'd fallen into had, their fingers drifted toward and touched on their hearts so briefly and casually he hadn't really noticed it before, but now it caught his inattention and while he thought it was odd he wasn't entirely sure of gestures used in the 1940s. It could've meant anything and probably meant nothing and Nadia was talking about problems with the current Comet models that Draco agreed with completely despite the fact he couldn't follow half of what she said.

Hours later, more tired than he thought he'd be, he stumbled up the steps to the Astronomy tower. Pressing a bleary eye toward his telescope just in time to catch a falling star he forgot to make a wish—or perhaps didn't think to make one though he heard whispered dreams around him—and Eris fell through the door, her knees hitting the stone floor, her books and parchment and quills scattering, a silver serpent pocket watch flying out of her pocket and across the room stopping at Tom's feet. He stooped down to pick it up and inspected it and its chain with a raised eyebrow before saying that it was his and asking where she found it and her face went white as the stars in the sky and she mumbled something about the couch in the common room and he thanked her coldly as the snake around her neck hissed angrily at her—probably for the fall, and her glassy eyes led her to a telescope three away from Draco and next to Hermione—the last one left—and both of them stared through their eye pieces dully, charting movements of stars in a sky so vast and empty and deep that it probably suited their moods.

Draco had never thought of the sky as something very deep. It'd always seemed flat to him. Like a large sheet with little white dots painted over the planet. Or a dark velvet blanket with diamonds stuck in it. Simple, pretty, and big. In that way it fit his mood as well as he smiled and stared at the moon. It took him a while, but he finally remembered to make his wish. And it had nothing to do with money or love or friends or family or intelligence or speed or a win of any sort. It was a simply complex request that he knew would probably be impossible to fill, but he made it anyway.

In a world where he was, finally, the only one unfettered by parents or obligations or duty or research or appearances in front of family friends he felt lighter than usual and there was nothing he wanted more than to hold that feeling forever.

**_

* * *

end_****_ notes_**: reviews are always appreciated 

_THANK YOU!_

_Black Aliss, __El Ci Aech Johnson, __Adriane-enairdA_


	11. twelve : dumbly bore us

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

_dumbly-bore-us_

_November 14, 1942 _

* * *

Visions of time turners and clocks and hourglasses and grains of sand, sun dials and moon charts and orbital maps turned and whirred and ticked and sifted their way behind her retinas. 

None of the books she'd read had yielded any explicitly useful information and she'd pored over them all night. Her skin was pasty, her hair was frizzing more than usual—it looked almost static, as though she'd just been electrocuted—and yet seemed oily and sticky at the same time, the bags under her eyes were so deep they were purple, and the whites of her eyes were laced with red. She almost didn't want to look in a mirror and certainly wasn't happy when she did. _You're very attractive today,_ she thought spitefully at her reflection. Her face seemed strung out and malformed and the expression when she saw it only made it worse.

"You look sick," Nadia commented as Hermione exited the bathroom. "Are you feeling all right?"

Having reached a point where she was so tired she was actually awake, Hermione just nodded and said something that sounded vaguely like "Not a morning person" but that came out sounding more like "Nuttamoningpersah" before yawning and going to pack her book bag. Transfiguration today. She'd see Dumbledore; he was the teacher, after all. She'd see him but she wouldn't be able to talk to him or ask for help about her present situation unless he already knew what was wrong.

This was the explicit information the book contained. Warnings and admonitions, horror stories, and a million and one dramatic what ifs that predicted insanity, collapse, destruction, explosion, the complete extinction of the human race, comets crashing into the planet, floods, tsunamis, dramatic political shifts, revolutions, widespread murders and epidemics if one so much as even thought about spreading news of their time travel. And while it was obvious that none of this was or could really be proved, Hermione had decided not to take any chances.

So by her new rules she wouldn't be able to talk to Dumbledore unless he talked to her first. Inconvenient, yes, but there were always other methods. The library books hadn't panned out. Fine. That _would_ be too easy, wouldn't it? And things were never that easy unless you honestly didn't expected them to be and she'd honestly been hoping to find her salvation written plainly in the straight horizontal lines of her texts, with diagrams and arrows and nice little numbers and comments detailing the steps she'd have to take to get back to her own time. That hadn't happened, but it wasn't the end of the world.

In fact, she still had a back-up plan didn't she? Something to do after the books failed her and that was talk to Dippet. Warren Mumps. Whatever. She reasoned that she'd had so much bad luck up till this point that fate would absolutely have to turn its bright, happy yellow beams of sunlight toward her and give the odd Headmaster all the answers she needed. Talking to him couldn't be dangerous, because he already knew she'd time traveled. And besides him there was Draco, she still had to ask him about any Dark Magic devices he might have had on his person that could've caused the dramatic time shift. None of her books had said anything about devices of that sort, but if they existed they wouldn't be in regular library books would they? Restricted section probably, but she couldn't get _there_ without talking to Dippet.

Dragging her feet, she half stumbled up the stairs, stopping to puzzle a bit over the fact that an equally exhausted Eris was slowly and carefully making her way in the opposite direction. Too tired to process, Hermione let it slip—probably working on an essay. They made teary-eyed yawning nods of recognition as they passed. Hermione was starting to feel, acutely, the consequences of having pulled an all-nighter in the unnatural green candlelight of the Slytherin girls' dormitory. She missed the sun. Living in a place where every time of day looked like twilight was off-putting to say the least. No wonder so many Slytherins were positive loons.

She trudged through the common room out the corridors and up the steps, wanting nothing more than to get somewhere with lots of nice windows and cheery sunlight pouring in. The Great Hall would do perfectly; its entire ceiling was like a window. Granted it was a fake window, like the kind in the dormitories, but no one took any great offense to it, and so she'd be able to enjoy it nicely, thank you very much.

* * *

Breakfast was quiet. Draco was happy. Eris sat, tired and despondent pushing her eggs around her plate and yawning occasionally. Tom chatted softly with Amias and Kerstan. Hermione looked like she was about to fall asleep in her orange juice. Draco actually hoped she would. 

Elaina was having a conversation with Ardennes, and at least twice during it, her hand went briefly to her collarbone. Amias mimicked the action, touching his hand to his collarbone three times before breakfast was over, and Draco was sure he'd seen Nadia do the same thing at least once that day. He remembered wondering about this very same peculiarity the day before and brushing it off as nothing. But now he was bored and this seemed interesting and so he eavesdropped, listening closely to their conversations and found that their hands touched their chests every time the conversation turned toward something about Tom or vaguely Tom-related. Perhaps there was a symbol of allegiance tucked under their robes. He was sure he'd find out eventually. He was also sure Hermione hadn't noticed yet.

Speaking of, the mudblood didn't seem to have found anything to help their time-travel woes as of yet. Draco wondered vaguely whether she'd try to break-in to the Restricted Section or whether she'd find some gullible half-wit teacher to give her permission to poke around.

"I hope they organize another Hogsmeade trip soon..." Veronica Crabbe was saying. "The Winter Ball is in two weeks and I _still _haven't got a decent set of dress robes!"

Elaina looked heavenward. "Nicky, last I saw you had _three_ designer—"

"But I've worn those all before!" Veronica whined. "What will Davin think if I show up to the Ball in robes I've already worn before?"

"That you're sensible?" Elaina quipped, shaking her head. "It'll be all right, Nicky, I don't think it's your robes Davin will be thinking about—as a matter of fact," she said thoughtfully, "I don't think Davin really does much thinking on the whole."

"Besides," Tom added with a self-deprecating smile, "At least you've got a date."

"Though I don't think _you'd_ want to go to the Winter Ball with Davin," Kerstan stated.

"Of course not," Tom replied. "In any case, you know how I bloody hate wearing dress robes—"

"I know!" Veronica shouted, apparently oblivious to the bit of conversation that'd gone on since the revelation that Tom was dateless reached her ears. "You could ask Harmony, she's new, she can't possibly have a date yet."

"Harmony" choked on her orange juice. This would've been funny—in fact, Draco was very close to laughing—had she not coughed up a stream of half-swallowed orange gook onto Draco's cheek. That rather ruined the effect—he thought, at least, as he reached frantically for a napkin to clear the spit from his face. "Bloody hell, mudblood, don't you at least know how to drink properly?"

And suddenly Draco was very aware of having said something very wrong very loudly. He could tell by the way the Great Hall was dead silent, as though someone'd gone at it with a giant sonic vacuum. He realized he was half-standing and sat back down, trying not to do it too quickly and wondering how red his face was. The uncomfortable silence went on for quite some time. Draco's collar began to itch, he thought he might be sweating, his face was getting pinker by shades, he felt the vague desire to turn into a tortoise and retreat into his shell... or perhaps a hare and jump away from the room. Finally, Tom saved him, shrugging and saying rather loudly the word: "Durmstrang". Which caused people all around the room to nod sympathetically and turn back to their meals.

_Note to self: _Draco thought, _stop using the word "mudblood"._

Across the table, Hermione was looking abhorrently smug.

* * *

Charms was the first class of the day. 

Professor Verity wasted no time in assigning them a simple color alteration charm, which they were to use on the feathers she'd provided. The color she wished was pink, which, she informed them with a broad smile, was her favorite. Draco recolored his feather in a matter of moments, with a simple flick of his wand and the right intonation of the proper charm. The rest of the class had also gotten their feathers colored with the same amount of ease, save Eris who had somehow managed to encase her feather in a fine frost.

Draco, who was standing next to her, only hoped that she didn't blow it up on her next attempt. She didn't. What she _did _do was set it on fire, then douse it in water, and finally transfigure it into a rabid badger that attacked Tom, who was in front of her, making the poor Dark Lord of the future drop his wand. _At least it's pink_, Draco thought, watching as Tom tried to fend off the absurd pink creation with his textbook.

"Get rid of it!" Tom shouted, unable to reach for his wand for fear of the badger's foaming mouth and incredibly sharp teeth. Draco tried his best not to laugh, he really did, but there was just something about the Dark Lord being attacked by a small pink mammal that made it very hard for him to control his expression.

"Oh all right," Eris replied slowly—_she _had been laughing, well, giggling at least and seemed very reluctant to stop her fun—"Wingardium Leviosa!" And though her color charms had failed, her levitation charm worked and the badger floated, kicking and frothing above Tom's head, coming to rest, finally, on the table in front of Eris. "Silly Ernest," she whispered to it, as she stroked its back, jerking her hand back quickly as it attempted to bite off her finger before running around in circles and snarling.

"Well, Ms. Daw," Professor Verity said, "It seems you've accidentally completed the assignment for today."

"The assignment for today was to attack Tom with a badger?" Eris asked happily. Tom glared at her.

"No, it was transfiguring an inanimate object into an animate being and altering it with a charm all at once using a fusion of transfiguration and charms work," Professor Verity replied, frowning at Eris. "I'm surprised you were able to get a mammal… and such a large one too. Your accidents are very lucky."

"Isn't he sweet?" Eris asked, as she caught the badger trying to jump into Tom's hair, apparently intending to rip the Heir's brain out.

Professor Verity frowned, shook her head and turned away, preparing to instruct the rest of the class. Draco felt himself in constant fear of the dangerous animal next to him. Though whether that meant the badger or the girl he wasn't quite sure. "Ernest" managed to jump to the floor and ran around there, snarling and sniping at everyone's feet for a while before Tom completed his assignment, transfiguring his white-again feather into a large pink hyena that lunged forward and ripped the badger's throat out in half a second.

One of the Hufflepuff girls threw up all over the Ravenclaw boy in front of her and the room smelled like puke until the class ended.

Eris was on her feet in a nanosecond, screaming at Tom, "Your stupid dog-thing killed Ernest!"

To which Tom replied dryly: "It's a hyena, Err."

"Well… they're part of the c_anis_ family aren't they?" she replied after a moment. "And it _killed_ Ernest! I thought they were supposed to be scavengers or something—and since _when_ do hyenas attack badgers?"

"You _named_ that thing? And in any case your bloody badger attacked me first or don't you remember?"

"A sure sign of intelligence," Eris stated emphatically. "And you did it on purpose, I knew it!"

"I did no such thing. All I'm saying is that you have no right to be angry because—"

And while they argued, the hyena began ripping apart and eating the dead badger's corpse causing more people to retch, including the Ravenclaw that'd been vomited on as Professor Verity frowned. Hermione had her hand over her mouth in horror and Nadia was pinching her nose to keep out the stink. People were lifting their feet —because the blood was spreading— and backing away from Tom's ridiculously frightening pink hyena.

"It was a sweet, tender mammal, it did practically nothing to you!"

"_Practically nothing!_It was _rabid_ you nitwit!"

Meanwhile the hyena dragged the badger's intestines across the floor and Professor Verity felt bile rising at the sight. "Tom Marvolo Riddle!" she shouted weakly, half covering her mouth, "Get rid of that wretched beast and clean up that mess you've made!"

At which point Eris looked a bit past Tom's shoulder and saw what had finally become of poor Ernest and stated, in an extreme, stunted, high pitched squeak, "Tom you—what—you—how—" before slowing down, lowering her tone to a more comfortable one and saying, "Bloody bastard, look what your stupid pet did to Ernest!" At which point the snake around her neck whacked her with its tail, eliciting a soft and annoyed "Ouch".

"Ms. Daw, watch your language!" Professor Verity shouted as she slowly recovered.

"Yes, Professor, I'm sorry, but he—"

"I know! Riddle, clean it up!" she shouted.

"Yes, Professor," Tom replied, nodding apologetically before waving his wand and saying a few words. In an instant the floor was clear save two white feathers, one ripped to shreds and one tinged a bit red. "I didn't know it would do that," Tom said meekly, "I've just never seen a hyena in real life before so…"

"Bollocks!" Eris shouted.

"Ms. Daw!" Professor Verity exclaimed.

Eris apologized again, profusely. All those who had vomited or been vomited on were sent to the Infirmary and Hermione finished the assignment third after Tom, with an adorable small pink robin that had no carnivorous instinct whatsoever. Draco finished about a second after Hermione, his fairly small pink snake attempted to attack the Gryffindor's bird, but he held it back, fearing the already irate Professor's wrath. She seemed incredibly close to giving the next minor offender detention for a month even though she didn't punish either Tom or Eris at all.

Nadia's pink sparrow was done after Draco's pink snake and it flew to the ceiling, perching on a chandelier. No one could get it down and it ended up crapping on Kerstan's shoulder. Kerstan attempted to retaliate by making a winged snake to go after the bird, but it ended up as a flying fish that flapped about on his desk for a while before he turned it back into a feather, saying that was what he'd actually meant to do all the while.

Transfiguration was next and much less graphic due to the fact that, having heard the stories of the previous Charms class, which were garbled accounts including the words, "rabies", "blood all over the place", "puke", and "intestines", Albus Dumbledore had partly proved his infinite wisdom to Draco by being absolutely specific on which animal he wanted.

They were all given sparrows—like the one Nadia had made in Charms, only not pink—and told to transfigure them into _fruit _bats. Mammals, Dumbledore explained, were difficult because of their complex structure, warm bloodedness, and their reproductive systems and, yes, it was an amazing fluke that Eris had managed a badger accidentally, but bats were simpler. Transfiguring animals into other animals was also difficult, because the original animal always tried to keep its shape. Therefore the class should not be disappointed if they do not manage to complete the assignment successfully during this class.

Draco was only half listening to the explanation. It was all rather droning to him. Although Hermione seemed to find it quite engrossing. He noticed that most Slytherins seemed disinterested and most Gryffindors seemed very excited about the whole business. Perhaps it was some sort of subconscious reaction to the teacher, Draco presumed. _Slytherins hate Dumbledore so anything he says bores us. Gryffindors are morons and so anything makes them happy. And speaking of easily amused idiots…_ Eris was happily tying a bow around her sparrow's neck. "This is Bernice," she whispered to Draco, patting the sparrow on the head happily. Draco gave a small smile and nodded in what he hoped she'd take as amused approval before ignoring her completely, his attention turned, inexplicably, to Hermione, who was busy alternating writing down every word that left Dumbledore's mouth and staring at him with great admiration like every other Gryffindor in the room. _Stupid Gryffies_, he thought shortly.

Tom finished first and quickly, barely exerting any effort. His fruit bat sat for Dumbledore's inspection and the Transfiguration Professor/Future Headmaster grudgingly gave his approval, which Tom nodded at indifferently. Hermione finished a half hour later. Dumbledore happily scored hers perfectly and she smiled at having received high marks yet again. Draco finished his fifteen minutes later and it was also scored perfectly, Dumbledore treating him with slightly less disdain than he did Tom, but definitely not with the enthusiasm which he'd greeted Hermione's bat with. Nadia finished another ten minutes after Draco, but her bat was still sparrow colored and so her marks were high but not perfect.

Eris managed to turn her sparrow into a cricket bat with oranges on it, an apple with bat ears, a yellow cricket bat with a banana for a handle, and a myriad of other silly creations, before finally managing a fruit bat just before class ended. It had a ridiculous fake fruit hat on its head—the kind best associated with conga lines—which Eris had to poutingly remove before Dumbledore would give her full marks. By the end of class, Kerstan had only managed a sparrow with batwings and just two or three other students had managed actual bats. The bats and part-bats were rounded up before class ended, except Eris's, due to the fact that she'd changed it back to a sparrow after having received her grade saying that "Bernice would probably like to be in her real form… I'd hate it if someone just came and turned me into a bat and _left_ me like that."

"Too late," Tom'd replied. And Eris glared at him.

* * *

Hermione was off to the Headmaster's Office, books clutched against her chest, book bag draped loosely over her shoulder as she adeptly kept hold of everything. 

Until someone grabbed her arm lightly and the whole finely crafted network fell to pieces and clattered to the floor. Stooping down to gather her things, Hermione huffed, fully prepared to give whoever it was a good talking to about randomly grabbing people who are carrying multiple objects in the hall, when a voice made her freeze in place, arm half outstretched, reaching for Warren Mumps's _Notes on the Practice of Traveling Through Time_.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't think you'd drop everything like that, you seemed to have your load under control."—it was Tom Riddle, crouched on the floor just next to her, gathering her books and pieces of parchment and other things that'd fallen out of her bag and replacing them carefully.

"I—" Hermione began, stunned to stuttering, before shaking herself out of it and finally grabbing that Mumps book. "It's all right," she replied finally, "No harm done."

"I'm sorry all the same," Tom replied, handing her back her bag and books, helping her to arrange them in her arms the way they were before. Hermione thought she was blushing and wondered why. She hoped she wasn't blushing, because a blush might mean she might actually be attracted to— "Interested in time travel?" Tom asked.

"What?" she replied defensively. Too defensively. She stifled a wince, but Riddle didn't seem to notice.

"Sorry," he said for the third time in less than five minutes. "I just saw the books I was trying to make conversation—everyone says I'm horrible at it."

"Was there a reason you grabbed me?" Hermione said, purposely harsh, trying to get him to stop being so damned _nice_. Dark Lords were supposed to be a lot of things but nice and chivalrous, apologetic and bashful were most definitely not among them.

He winced slightly and she felt bad, before mentally punching herself for feeling any sort of guilt for hurting Lord fudging Voldemort's feelings. "I just noticed you were going to the library instead of the Great Hall again," he replied with a shrug.

"And?" Hermione replied, trying to be irritable.

"Well," Tom started slowly. "Look, I don't want to interfere with your life or tell you what to do, but it's generally a bad idea to study all the time and barely eat. Yes, it does help you keep that lovely figure, but it isn't at all good for your health. It'd be a good idea to sleep some time too instead of studying all night. Trust me, I know, all not eating and not sleeping does is make you pass out in the middle of class and you'll be mocked for it for _years_ because Slytherins never forget anything and because for them that's the point of having friends—mockery, I mean—because if you want to be flattered you can just make a lot of enemies… sorry am I talking too much? Everyone says I do that too. When they're not telling me I'm too quiet, that is."

Hermione was staring dumbly. _Is he concerned with my health, _was her first thought, followed by, _Did__ he just compliment my figure? _"I'll be fine, thank you," she finally managed to quip, turning away.

"Ah," Tom said, tapping her shoulder to avoid another biblioavalanche. "Really sorry to bother you, but I have it on very good authority that today's lunch is very good and I'm sure you wouldn't want to miss it."

"Whose authority?" Hermione found herself saying instead of the "I'm sure I _would_ like to miss it" that she'd meant.

"Well," Tom replied, scratching the back of his head almost shyly. "The house elves that work in the kitchen."

"Really?" Hermione asked archly.

"Yes," Tom nodded. "Even though, and I know this is going to sound absurd, I've always felt a bit bad about eating the fruits of their labor, but this is one of my favorite lunches and I'm sure you'll like it too and I don't want you to pass out in any of our classes, because that… would be... bad."

"You feel bad about eating food prepared by house elves?" Hermione asked, again mostly wishing she'd just shut up and walk away.

"I know it sounds… idiotic, but, well, it's all the product of slave labor, you know and—" he stopped and bit his lip. "I didn't come here to lecture on house elves, so ah if you'd… like to eat the Great Hall is… well, you know where it is so… _I'm_ going to go eat and I'll see you… there," he said, with a nod. "Or not." With that he turned awkwardly and walked toward the Great Hall.

And, in spite of what her brain was shouting, her feet decided to follow him. After a few yards, her brain acquiesced, supposing that talking to and being near Tom Riddle might give her some insights into the Dark Lord himself, which could help the war effort and/or perhaps garner a new S.P.E.W. member. After a few more yards the completely addled organ tried to work again: _Tom Riddle? _it thought._ Lord Voldemort? Killer of muggles? But he cares about house elves? But that makes no sense and I have work to do and being near him might be dangerous and if something happens to me Dumbledore might never know about the Hogsmeade Initiation. I should definitely Turn Around! _But by then she was already at the Great Hall.

* * *

She came in just a few minutes after Tom did and Draco's first, surprised thought was, _Shouldn't she be at the library?_ Then a suspicion began to sneak up on him, intensifying when Tom smiled at her and she blushed. _So much for Gryffindor integrity_. He thought bitterly, _Now_I'll_ actually have to do some research._

Hermione sat in her usual spot and Eris looked at her, smiling sweetly and saying "Oh, so they do eat lunch where you come from" before being told to shut up by Tom and going back to a conversation about the Winter Ball with Elaina.

"Who are you going with?" Eris asked Elaina.

"Amias, I think," was the reply. Elaina cast a questioning glance at Amias and he nodded saying "Of course". Elaina inclined her head a bit and asked, "What about you?"

"I don't know," Eris replied. "Everyone's already paired up or completely opposed to going period or vermin like Tom," she stated morosely. "You always tell me not to procrastinate, I never listen."

"Now I'm vermin, am I?" Tom asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh don't look so surprised, why do you think no one wants to go to the ball with you?" replied Eris meanly.

"From what I hear you don't have a date either," Tom countered.

"I was picky," Eris stated, narrowing her eyes. "I was waiting for the one person I wanted to ask me to ask me and then I realized that there was no one particular person I wanted to ask me but by then it was yesterday and patently too late."

"Likely story. There probably was a particular person and he probably didn't ask."

"Think that if you like," Eris replied flipping her hand cavalierly. "It doesn't change the truth a bit," she sighed and put her head down on the table. "Oh I probably just shouldn't go."

"Nonsense," Kerstan said, shaking his head. "Draco will take you."

Eris lifted her head up and Tom almost choked on his pastrami. "He hasn't even asked," they both said in unison before glaring at each other. "What a rotten thing to do," Tom continued, "Forcing your cousin to escort the likes of… that," he finished, gesturing vaguely across the table in Eris's direction.

"Go to hell," Eris replied, sweetly smiling. "But honestly, Kers, I'm sure he wouldn't want to take me, I'm a halfblood remember?"

_Damned right,_ Draco thought.

"Nonsense," Kerstan repeated, "I'm sure he'd love to, wouldn't you?"

And, not wanting to anger his cousin Draco said, "Of course. It is just a ball after all."

"Exactly," Kerstan stated happily, not catching the rhyme, to Draco's minor disappointment.

"All right," Eris said somberly, "I've got a pity date. Glad that's settled."

_Great, now I have to escort a bloody mudblo—"_Oh!" Draco exclaimed, suddenly having conceived of a way out. "I haven't got any dress robes." Which was, in fact, the absolute truth.

"I can lend you some," Kerstan said with a shrug. "Or Amias can, whichever fits you best. What color are your robes Eris?"

"They're the same ones as always, but please don't give him the same color, I hate that, make him wear black or something," she said before taking a sip of her water.

"Black is easy, we've loads of black." Amias said nodding. "I'm sure I have something that should fit you."

"Lovely."

_

* * *

He killed Harry's parents. He would've killed Harry. _

_His followers tortured Neville's parents under the Cruciatus until the pain burned their minds away._

_He committed patricide as a teenager._

_He's responsible for Myrtle's death. He's responsible for Hagrid's expulsion._

_He almost killed Ginny._

_He's the reason muggleborns lived in terror for years. He's the reason the Death Eaters exist. He's the reason for the murders, the massacres, the torture, the rape. He's the reason Harry's always had such a hard time. He's the reason Sirius is dead._

_He would've killed me._

_Would've _killed_ me._

Remember that, she told herself sternly, remember all those things. Remember everything he says is a lie. About the house elves, about anything. That bashfulness is an act, the civility, the manners, the mannerisms, and the forgetfulness. It must be an act and Tom Riddle must be a liar, because there is no way someone so civil could commit such atrocities. Could allow such horrors to be committed in his name. There is no way a nice, polite, well-mannered sixteen-year-old concerned over the slave labor of house elves could execute muggleborns by the dozens simply for being muggleborn.

So he's a liar. Or there's something else going on—but, no, it's safer and much more logical to assume he's a liar. Better to remember those things, what he will do. What he's already done.

Hermione was incredibly annoyed with herself. Today marked the second time that she'd been taken in and made to forget herself by a courteous Slytherin. She liked to tell herself that it was all the shock that made her react so well to him. After all, being addressed politely by Voldemort was a rather disconcerting experience, and one couldn't be held responsible for one's behavior during such an experience. And the blush had been due to the heat in the Great Hall, she insisted, and a lack of sleep.It was most definitely not caused by that… _thing_ masquerading as a decent human being. In fact, now that she thought of it, most of her odd behavior about him could be attributed to lack of sleep. It made people batty, she remembered, she'd have to sleep more to keep alert.

Because they were all liars every single one of them; that was what she had to remember. She'd been tossed into a den of snakes one lone, honest Gryffindor among a ton of iniquitous Slytherins. And maybe she was a bit more gullible than they were, in certain respects. And in those respects she wasn't as good at the art of prevarication either. But she wasn't stupid, and she had years of knowledge on her side. Fifty-four to be almost precise. She knew exactly what Tom Riddle would do when he graduated, knew exactly what would come of that charming, courteous, attractive, genius boy. Knew it and was disgusted by it. If she could preserve that disgust for the Voldemort of the future, crystallize it, remember that he and this Tom were one and the same, that these "friends" would become Death Eaters, that they would commit crimes against humanity that would be unimaginable had Hitler not already managed worse, she was sure she'd make it out of Slytherin alive and unscathed. All she had to do was hold it in mind, the memory, the idea of Tom Marvolo Riddle's unapologetic tyranny.

And now she thought she was all right, as Professor Bran went on and on about the proper care and maintenance of some creature or other—Hermione had to confess she wasn't really paying attention. They were some sort of small fuzzy things and seemed much gentler than anything that Hagrid had unleashed on them. Professor Bran was a smallish man with thinning hair, who seemed uncommonly excitable and was missing one or two of his fingers—most notably the index finger of his right hand, which forced him to point with his middle finger, an action that always extracted giggles from first years and older students whose minds had stuck at the age of eleven.

For a moment, the cleverest witch of Hogwart's future wondered at her distraction. Care of Magical Creatures had always been one of her favorite classes, more for days like the one with the hippogriffs and talks with Hagrid than for the sterling education on matters such as the proper way to raise a flobberworm.

Draco was happily petting his fuzzy thing. Hermione had to tilt her head in amazement at the fact that for once in his life he didn't seem like a complete jerk. The fuzzy thing nuzzled his hand and licked him and he grinned broadly. For a moment it was almost cute. Almost. And only for a moment.

Hermione turned back to her fuzzy thing and wondered what it was called and what she was supposed to be doing with it. Thankfully, Tom wasn't in this class. He had Arithmancy. Eris wasn't here either, being that she had Ancient Runes with Nadia right now. Kerstan was also absent—in Muggle Studies, of all things. "Know your enemy," he'd quipped sagely at Hermione's questioning glance. And "Oh, you know I don't mean _you_" after the first remark elicited suspicious glares from the halfbloods of the bunch.

So Hermione was alone with Draco and the fuzzy things and the rest of the Care of Magical Creatures class, which seemed to consist mostly of Hufflepuffs.

In fact Care of Magical Creatures seemed to repel Slytherins like Albus Dumbledore did. "Why are you in that class?" Kerstan had asked almost disgustedly.

"I used to take come-see. It's a muggle thing," Eris shrugged, explaining for Hermione. "And Draco is probably in it so girls will think he's sensitive."

"So she's a _halfblood _from Durmstrang," Kerstan clarified for himself. "Your parents are affluent?"

"Were," Hermione corrected, "I'd rather not talk about it." Which wasn't a lie, because she really didn't want to have to lie any more than she had to.

"Completely understandable," Kerstan replied with a slight nod of approval.

And then, unable to help herself, Hermione asked, "Come-see?"

"C-O-M-C," replied Eris, spelling out the class's initials. "Come-see also as in come see this neat little furry/scaly/oddly feathered creature/plant form/mold growth/interesting speck of dust, it won't bite, which happens to be Professor Bran's favorite phrase."

Which is exactly what the Professor said, excitedly as she ran away from the edge of the forest and then back again, waving to her students wildly to get them to peer with her at a little spotted mushroom that was apparently the fuzzy thing's favorite food. Caught up in the Professor's enthusiasm, it took Hermione a while to realize that Draco hadn't dropped one single obnoxious derisive quip throughout the entire period.

In fact, she didn't notice it until midway through the last class of the day (double DADA), which Draco was also being uncommonly polite in. The Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher was called Dante after the poet and refused to answer to anything other than Professor D, which Hermione thought very unprofessional and very at odds with his image due to the fact that Professor D strongly reminded her, in some ways, of Bela Lugosi.

The class was much the same as the one in the present time—full up, that was. Although their current Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher was an imposing six foot seven inch tall part giant named Maude, who tolerated no nonsense from smart mouthed students (which didn't stop certain Slytherins from being their annoying, disruptive selves). For the first hour or so, Professor D taught in a method reminiscent of the false Moody had—moving the desks aside and firing curses at them at random—none of the Unforgiveables and nothing dangerous, of course—to keep them on their toes and teach them to defend better before setting them against each other. Hermione couldn't help but notice that he worked the halfbloods harder than everyone else, demanding higher standards time and again.

"Grindelwald is still out there!" he exclaimed. "Speed is essential! This must be _reflex_ do you understand! You must be able to do these things without a single conscious thought, otherwise..." And he let the sentence trail off grimly and the students worked harder because they _knew_, first, second, or third hand what would happen otherwise. They had friends in St. Mungo's and friends who were dead. Parents who were dead, siblings who were missing, or at least they were close to _someone_ that bore the strife. Too many halfbloods in Hogwarts. Too many halfbloods in Slytherin, and Grindelwald simply couldn't abide by that, because Slytherins should know better and so Slytherin got hit first and hardest and Hogwarts was his focus, because Hogwarts should know better as well—that was what Elaina'd told her along with cursory information about Tom the other day. "Still surviving, though," Eris jumped in with a smile, having just walked into the room, "Dumbly-dorus's one use, I suppose."

Hermione drew the mental parallel as she deflected a curse coming from Nadia's direction. In her time the terror was just beginning again. So far there were no huge tragedies, no mass murders, just panic and paranoia and a heavy sense of malaise. Muggleborns were afraid to travel out of their houses or leave their schools. Doors were kept locked tightly and windows were securely fastened with warning charms placed everywhere along with special charms to help ward off Apparation. People were disappearing on the sly, and Voldemort was apparently conducting initiations right under Dumbledore's nose. Harry was basically ostracized and societal tension was so thick with fear it was almost visible. But they were all still surviving, the school itself remained mostly unmolested—one of Dumbledore's many uses. Voldemort hadn't made his big move... yet.

"Remember to _keep an iron grip_ on those wands of yours; they're useless to you if you drop them!" _Don't I know._

Looking around the classroom, Hermione noticed that quite a few students had already been hit with spells. She and Riddle seemed to be the only ones still spell free—until Draco hit her with one that turned her hair green. She noticed, with a vengeful smile, that his hair looked like a rainbow. Eris had been made a blonde, and Nadia's skin was a light blue color. Kerstan seemed to be covered in small sores—as though he had chicken pox.

"All right, enough!" Professor D exclaimed, causing all "combatants" to drop their wands to their sides and get out of the way as Professor D moved all the desks and papers back into their original places.

The students took their seats and Hermione noted, again with a smile, that Riddle hadn't come out entirely unscathed either. Someone had managed to turn his eyes brown. Counterspells were doled out quickly and everyone was soon back to normal—a bit more tired than they'd been to start, but that was all.

"Getting better," Professor D said, "But still not good enough. I'd advise you to practice out of class, but I suspect the other teachers would get angry with me for telling you to try to curse each other, so that's not an option," he shrugged. "What I advise is throwing paper balls at each other—yes, paper balls, if you use the right spell you can throw them fast enough for them to be effective. What is important here is dodging, reflex, a countercurse is useless if you're disabled before you can speak a syllable."

And with that part of the lesson out of the way, Professor D began teaching them new countercurses, new guards and shields and ways to protect themselves and carried it all out with the same urgency that Hermione was sure Professor Maude was exhibiting in her time although Professor Maude never made them get up and dodge each other.

Draco stayed quiet throughout the class, listening intently to everything Professor D said, rather than being his usual nonchalant self. Tom apparently hadn't noticed his sudden eye color change, and so his dark blue eyes stayed brown the rest of the day. The funny thing, Hermione thought, was that every time she looked at him with those brown eyes she could've sworn he looked very much like someone she knew but was unable to place. It only took her about ten minutes to decide that she shouldn't be thinking so much about the murdering Dark Lord and that the person he probably reminded her of was himself, because Tom _did_ look a lot like himself after all.

The funnier thing was that, had Draco (who prided himself so on his observational skills) noticed Tom's temporary brown eyes, he would've known _instantly _just who it was the young Mr. Riddle resembled.

* * *

"You did well in Transfiguration today," said Tom. "That was a very nice fruit bat."—which was the third time he'd complimented her in the past hour. 

Eris rolled her eyes from across the table and muttered, "At least _I'm_ not going after the new girl who's been here, what, 50 hours?"

"At least seventy-two," Tom replied easily, ignoring Hermone's questioning stare.

"_In any case_," Elaina said loudly, apparently continuing some sort of speech, "My money's on Gryffindor this weekend."

"Elaina!" Kerstan exclaimed.

Eris shook her head. "Blasphemy," she stated in a manner that Hermione thought seemed almost coy.

"No, it isn't. Amias put a _gifted_ seeker on his roster," Elaina replied with a shrug.

"Gifted!" Hermione's eyes were wide and she seemed positively incredulous. "Draco? He lost every one of our intramural Quidditch competitions at Durmstrang!" she exclaimed, almost stumbling over the school name.

"I did _not_," Draco protested.

"Of course you did," Eris replied. "Or some of them at least," it was her turn to shrug now as she tilted her head and regarded him in a way that seemed (impossibly) vacantly introspective.

"You can see it in the way he plays, can't you, Amias?" Elaina asked, turning to her fellow seventh year and the eldest Malfoy at the table. "Like once upon a time some idiot tried to _teach_ him to be a seeker in the stereotypically Slytherin way. Suppose that was Durmstrang."

"That's the way it seemed at the beginning," Amias admitted. "I was a bit worried, but as it went on—"

"He was absolutely brilliant," Eris finished with a nod, staring off at nothing in particular."After a while."

"But before that you seemed normal."

"Mediocre."

"Would've been surprised if he'd been able to catch a football."

"What's a football?"

"Muggle thing."

Hermione liked the expression on Draco's face just then. It was sort of twisted up and stretched out as though he didn't know whether to feel insulted or complimented. "Um," he mumbled uncertainly.

"Well it wasn't that he seemed all right before, just not—"

"Great?"

"Exactly," Elaina nodded her approval. "And that's why you'll lose."

"Because he's excellent?" Amias asked with a raised eyebrow.

"He could've been better," Eris muttered flippantly.

"Definitely," Elaina agreed, "And yes that's why you'll lose. Because if he can get to that place—completely for once—the points won't matter, the snitch will, and so he'll stop playing strategically with the entire game in mind and start thinking solely about the snitch and the Gryffindors have always been better scorers than you—no offence, Amias, but they have and you know it—we've just always been swifter closers than they have, but they've got new members this year and you don't know what they play like, so dear Draco might accidentally catch the snitch before you've caught the team. And if he _can't_ go to that place he'll be a mediocre seeker, which Danny definitely is _not_ and you'll catch the team, but Danny will catch the snitch at the opportune moment and you'll lose."

"It doesn't matter either way," Tom stated. "It's a silly game."

"It is not," replied Eris indignantly. "It's too _big_ for that."

"Everything with you is too bloody big."

"Everything with you is too bloody _small_."

Tom's jaw clenched and he set his fork aside. "How can he be such a great player if, as Harmony says, he's lost so many times… by losing the snitch I presume?"

Hermione nodded slowly.

Eris frowned. "Because he wants to win."

"Well, there you are," Elaina stated. "Such a common dilemma and yet, somehow, still so oddly tragic."

"I hope you're wrong," Amias replied.

"Things would be so much more interesting if she wasn't," Eris said. And then after a pause, "At least he's still better than Robbie."

* * *

After dinner, Hermione went to the Slytherin girls' dormitory and shoved her things in her trunk for tomorrow, locking it with a few special spells so that no prying fellow Slytherin could get a chance to sift through her things. She picked up the book she'd gotten from the library—the one written by Warren Mumps and set off toward the Headmaster's office. 

The Gryffindor had made her mind up about a few things during the meal. Firstly, she'd have to enlist Draco's help in getting back to the present. For whatever reason he seemed slightly less arrogant and obnoxious in this time than in theirs and since she was in a great hurry it would be more helpful to have someone else working on the project. Secondly, she'd have to stop talking to Tom Riddle. Period. If that meant avoiding meals and sneaking down to the kitchens instead then so be it. He was much too dangerous for her not to take absolutely seriously, and the image he was creating for her now was so completely at odds with the one she knew to be true that it was nigh driving her insane. Lastly, of course, the easiest thing on the list, she'd have to talk to Eris about that belladonna. It was never a good thing, she'd decided, when Slytherins decided to sneak highly toxic substances out of Herbology classes. And so it was her duty as a Gryffindor prefect to get that business cleared up.

But the number one priority remained getting back to her time and the number one step at the moment still happened to be talking to Headmaster Dippet about his apparent identity confusion. So she went up to the gargoyle guarding his door and said, "Firework." It moved aside and up the staircase she climbed. "Headmaster Dippet?" she called, knocking on his door lightly.

"Come in, come in," came his voice from inside. She opened the door and stepped through the threshold to find Professor Dippet sitting at his desk, a pair of little round spectacles perched on his nose as he shuffled some papers about. "You wanted something, Ms. Rush?"

Hermione shut the door before correcting him. "Granger," she stated. "Hermione Granger."

"Yes, of course," the Headmaster smiled back at her. "But we don't want to advertise the fact. Now I assume you're here for a specific reason?" he gestured toward the chair in front of his desk and she nodded, sitting down.

"Yes," she replied, placing _Notes on the Practice of Traveling Through Time_ on his desk. "When I first came you said something about your name being Warren?"

"Yes!" he exclaimed happily, picking up the book and flipping through it. He adjusted his spectacles with his index finger. "My middle name, after my uncle, he used to do experiments in time traveling. Wrote this book and disappeared one day," Dippet said, smiling as he handed the book back to Hermione. "No one ever found out where to," he paused. "I was wondering if perhaps he turned up in the future at some point? Would that be how you got here?"

Hermione wouldn't have known the comparison, but just then she felt like someone who'd smoked way too many cigarettes lying on the grass staring at an overcast sky on one of those odd nicotine high/lows. The way she thought of it, her heart sank and her head flew away. "No," she replied, utterly crushed, but somehow unbothered by the whole business. "We don't know how we got here," she said, still superbly calm. "We were hoping you did."

"Oh, no," Dippet said, shaking his head. "I'm quite sorry. If you could find my uncle… but no one's seen him in years. Not since 1918, actually, the day the Great War ended. The War to end all wars, they said it was. And here we are wrapped up in another one. Is Europe at war in your time?" he asked.

"No," Hermione replied.

"That's good," said Dippet. "I'm sorry I can't help you, though. I'm sure you'll find something eventually," he gathered his papers up again, "But until then, make sure you pay attention to your studies! They'll be of use to you no matter what time you're in."

Hermione nodded dumbly. "Thank you for your time," she said as she left. She trudged despondently back toward the Slytherin common room, noting that as she passed through the corridors she was probably inhaling tons of tiny mold particles and dust particles that would probably end up wrecking her lungs sometime in the future. Living in Slytherin made breathing difficult. Oh wasn't that funny, she though darkly.

She said the password at the wall (it was _Veritas_, exhibiting once again the old Slytherin's particular preference for ironic humor) and stepped into the uncommonly empty common room. Eris sat on her couch, with some book or other held roughly at arms length from her face. _Convenient_, Hermione thought, as she walked up to the other girl. The snake around Eris's neck hissed upon seeing her and Hermione ignored it.

Eris closed her book and set it aside quickly. "Something you wanted?" she asked, shushing the snake.

"Why do you hold things so far away from you when you read," Hermione asked.

"I'm farsighted," she replied. "Which is much less common and a condition much preferred than and to myopia. Is that all you came to do? Criticize me on my reading habits?"

Hermione thought, for a moment, there might be a double meaning in that before dismissing it entirely. "Why don't you buy glasses?" she asked, stalling.

"Haven't got the money. Is that all?" Eris asked, putting her hand over the cover of her book.

Hermione shook her head. "You stole belladonna from Herbology," she stated frankly.

"You saw that, did you?" Eris asked. "And you didn't tell. I'm surprised."

"I could tell Professor Bourdillon," replied Hermione, crossing her arms over _Notes on the Practice of Traveling Through Time_.

Eris tilted her head like she usually did and asked, "Are you bribing me? I'm even more surprised."

"I'm not bribing you," Hermione replied, perturbed, "I want to know why you took it."

"I took it to take it," Eris replied easily. "I'd have thought that would've been obvious."

"It's highly toxic!" Hermione exclaimed, eyes widening as she almost dropped her book. "You'll kill yourself!"

"Not if you only take it a bit at a time and not if Ardennes mixes it just right," Eris replied, picking her book up again and opening it, laying the covers on her lap while she flipped through the pages. "Brilliant potions master, he is, did you know that? And a real _master._ That talent is unbelievable, honestly it is."

"He's helping to make you drugs?" Hermione asked, alarmed. This was definitely getting bigger than one student filching some plants from class.

"Sleeping draughts," Eris replied, "And only because it's more toxic if I do it myself and he knows I will. He also knows if he turns me in I'll probably be expelled," she paused. "If you're going to turn me in would you please try not to mention him? He is very nice, you know, and brilliant as I said. He doesn't deserve to be punished for anything; he's had things hard enough."

"Why don't you go to the infirmary for sleeping draughts?" Hermione asked, sitting down on the arm chair near the couch.

Eris glared at her for a moment before saying, "Dreamless sleep potion, you mean? People weren't meant to sleep without dreaming, you know, I'd go mad, I would."

"But—"

"Why don't you just forget about it?" Eris asked. "If I don't sleep I'll die faster than if I sleep using Ardennes draught. If I sleep with Dreamless sleep potion I'll go mad faster than I'd die using Ardennes's draught. It's really as simple as that," she paused and then continued, "I really can't imagine why Dippet thought you'd do well in Slytherin. You're such an obvious Gryffindor."

"And would the Slytherin thing to do be to let you kill yourself without saying a word," Hermione asked, slightly offended.

"No," Eris replied, shaking her head lightly. "If you were a Slytherin you'd have bribed me." She paused for a moment, a tilted her head again in that odd considering way she did and Hermione felt a bit uneasy. Bubblehead or no, this girl was still a _Slytherin_. "Why are you studying time travel?" she asked, archly.

"It's a subject of interest," Hermione replied, trying to disguise her unease and keep her arms from hiding the title of the book.

"It's a messy business," said Eris shaking her head. "Most people don't realize how many different places you could end up… most of those books don't either," she muttered flippantly.

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked curious, again, in spite of herself.

"There are so many different approaches and theories on time and they're all conflicting and all true at the same time. You'd know more about it if you took Divination or Theory; it follows the same concept as prediction. Point being it's not exactly safe, and it's not exactly something goody little Gryffies should be dabbling with in their spare time. But you could always ask Tommy Dearest for help with it. He's very knowledgeable," she stated ironically.

"I'm going to sleep," Hermione announced after a moment, turning to go.

"Good. Have fun with that," was the reply.

And Hermione went down to the girls' dormitory, with its eerie green light, noticing halfway down that the other girl had managed to sidetrack her and get her off the belladonna topic. She frowned worriedly. There were too many things wrong with this House. She'd never be on sure footing in it and she hated that, there was nothing here she could master, no key, no code, just manipulation and lies. If idiot Eris could dodge her… but maybe Eris wasn't an idiot. Maybe Elaina wasn't so nice, maybe Nadia just played at being friendly toward halfbloods. They could all be lying to her and she'd never know. The only thing she could do was get out as quickly as possible.

She opened up her book bag; pulling out the books she'd borrowed, ready to pore through them again before realizing that she had another problem. A grand total of _two_ Slytherins had commented on her choice of reading material today. It might mean nothing, but it might also mean someone suspected her. As she pulled out a piece of parchment for note taking, she decided that she'd have to go to the library and borrow books on some other subject to make it seem like she was interested in a myriad of subjects. The simple _thought_ of carting around all those books made her shoulders ache, but there was nothing for it. And she'd have to speak to Draco as soon as possible. _That_ thought was almost enough to make her feel like going to sleep and not waking up for the next fifty-four years. Then her old woman self would be able to tell Dumbledore everything that happened. Maybe it already was.

_Too much_, she thought. The world was giving her a migraine.

**_

* * *

thank you : _**_firesorceress1, __JellyBellys, __ZippyRox, __Adriane-enairdA_


	12. thirteen : voldy bad, blaise good

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

_voldemort bad, blaise good_

_November 13, 1996 _-

**

* * *

**"Hello, Ms. Greengrass comma Daphne and how are you this fine morning?" 

"… you talk?"

Blaise stared and tried very, very hard not to be annoyed. That was at least the third time he'd gotten that response since he'd started this whole business. Biting back the sarcastic reply on his tongue, (_"No, actually my brain has been hijacked by a bacterial monkey that's forcing my vocal cords to produce sounds…"_) he said, "Yes, actually."

"Well what do you want Zabini?"

_For you to stop being a bitch_. "I was just wondering," he began politely, "If you were planning to be a Death Eater?"

It was Daphne's turn to stare at him. She had pretty green eyes and pretty red hair and was, quite contrary to stereotype one of the calmest people he knew. Bitchy. But calm. "What is this?" she asked suspiciously. "Are you spying for…" she paused, trying to think of who Blaise could possibly be spying for before saying, "someone?"

"Myself?" Blaise offered. "In any case, I know Pansy must've been by, advertising the lovely benefits of being a Death Eater—"

"You mean clearing the world of mudblood filth?" Daphne cut in coldly. "Doesn't _sound_ like a bad plan to me."

"Yes, I know," Blaise replied, "But don't you think it's a bit… ucky?"

Daphne's face went sort of blank. Blaise didn't think that was a good thing. "Ucky." she repeated sardonically. "Your vocabulary amazes me. What is that supposed to mean anyway?"

"Nothing, just that murder and rape isn't really fun for most people. You're a woman aren't you? You know what those Death Eaters do to muggle women—"

"Filth," Daphne interjected.

"All the same," Blaise replied with a shrug. "It's distasteful."

Daphne paused and then said, "Supposing I agreed with you about that. Isn't it still safer to be with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named than against him?"

"Oh, Daffy," said Blaise, "Do you honestly believe in him?"

"In the fact that he exists?" Daphne asked, mirroring Millicent's question from the day before. "Of course: he's alive and kicking."

"Yes, well," Blaise started. "so is a man being hanged by an imprecise executioner, which, really, just goes to show you can't figure the future from the present state of things."

"Right," stated Daphne, "Which I suppose is a good thing since the present state of things isn't so hot for Dumbledore and his side, is it?"

"No…" Blaise conceded, "I suppose not. Then again, the present state of things wasn't so great for Dumbledore and his ilk back when Voldy was at the peak of his power until he got defeated by an _infant_. Bet nobody saw _that _one coming."

Daphne (who'd winced at his use of the word "Voldy") said, "Fine, assuming I trust you on that count as well. What are the chances that I'll die opposing You-Know-Who?"

"One to one," Blaise replied casually.

"What?"

"One hundred percent. You _will_ die; it's just the when and the how that're up for questioning. Opposing Voldemort isn't going to make you bloody _immortal_, you know. Neither does following him, actually. And in any case, I think it's less embarrassing to die honorably for what history will view as a noble cause than to die a miserable, spineless wretch who got killed by her boss because she wasn't breathing correctly."

Rolling her eyes at him, Daphne said, "I'd rather not die at all."

"Like I said: you're shit outta luck," Blaise replied with a shrug.

"I mean I'd like to live longer than sixteen years, thanks much," Daphne replied, apparently trying not to get irritable.

"Well," Blaise began, "Again, like I said: Dumbledore is never going to kill you for displeasing him. Voldemort on the other hand… offers far less job security."

"I see your point."

"I'm glad."

"You know," Daphne muttered, "I could tell Pansy about what you're trying to do here."

"And have Crabbe snap my pretty little neck?" Blaise asked sorrowfully. "Well, that's not very _nice_, but I suppose it's your choice."

"You were honestly expecting nice?" Daphne asked incredulously.

"No, not really," Blaise replied. "I was perfectly willing to settle for anything so long as it wasn't murderous."

"You're funny, did you know that?"

"No."

"I'll think about what you said. You can go now."

"All right."

**

* * *

**Minerva McGonagall stared at the book in front of her in patent disbelief. 

"So you see," Dumbledore continued, "They're quite all right."

"No, no, no," the Transfiguration teacher replied, shaking her head. "No, that's Harmony Rush, and well, Amias's cousin Draco—the one _our_ Draco was named after, they can't be… Albus, you must be mistaken."

"I don't remember them," Dumbledore muttered flatly. "But they were transfer students, yes?"

"Why… yes," Minerva replied, "But there were so many transfer students that year—"

"And they left at the end of the year, didn't they? They weren't back in seventh?"

"Completely understandable," McGonagall reasoned. "They'd have wanted to get home as soon as possible."

"Yes," Dumbledore replied, "They would."

And McGonagall stared at the picture and pursed her lips. She hadn't talked to Harmony much. She hadn't talked to Draco much either. He'd played Quidditch, she remembered, and the both of them always hung around with—"Wait," she spoke up, shaking her head. "That can't be Hermione, I remember, Harmony Rush—she dated Riddle didn't she? Just after Eris'd had enough… you must remember, Albus. Hermione would never have—"

"She did."

Minerva's lips thinned further, brows drawing together slightly at the effort it took to send her memory back fifty-some years in time. Other things she could remember, like the color of the birthday card her mother had gotten her when she was three, but for some reason her teenage years managed to elude her. She couldn't recall the faces any more, not on her own. Couldn't verify the photographs that Albus was showing her. That girl certainly looked like Hermione and that boy certainly looked like Draco, but… "How?"

"Don't know," Dumbledore replied lightly.

McGonagall shook her head, "What do you mean you don't know?" The Headmaster gave no response and so she queried, "Albus?" and still the old man sat, unmoving, eyes opening and closing dreamily behind half-moon spectacles, oblivious to the world around him. "Albus!" she shouted now, stamping her foot and feeling like a child, "What the bloody hell is going on?"

**

* * *

**Voldemort was not in a good mood. 

In fact, he might've gone so far as to say he was in a _bad_ mood.

According to Elaina he'd almost killed the only reason he was still alive today. In a sort of roundabout way. Except, according to Elaina, he couldn't have killed her, because she had to go back in time—it's a loop, do you see? No, actually, he didn't, but it was a rather trivial matter after he'd thought about it for a while. The galling thing was that Elaina, Eris, and Amias had all known, to some degree or another, and been able to keep it from him.

But that he could put behind him as well. After all, he'd been roughly sixteen at the time, and Dark Lords shouldn't be expected to possess omniscience until at least the age of twenty-five.

The thing that annoyed him the most at the moment was the stirring of dissention in the Death Eater ranks. Mindless purebloods were easy to lead, but their children seemed to enjoy _thinking_. A dangerous pursuit under normal circumstances this practice was made twice as deadly by the fact that Voldemort disapproved of it. "He kills people randomly!" they'd whisper, "On a whim! That's not very good 'job security'." These whisperers still bore his mark, though, and whenever one of their treasonous sentences reached his ears he made the speakers immediately regret their words. But he had yet to identify the source.

These children, he knew, did not normally think for themselves. He knew this, because if any of them had thought about it for themselves, none of them would've joined him. It was really that simple. And since things were so simple both in his organization and in the minds of his followers there had to be some outside source peddling opinions to the gullible young witches and wizards whose minds he'd so obviously claimed first.

His first thought had been the most obvious one: Dumbledore and Hogwarts, so that was where he'd turned his attention. His spies gathered information for him, moles telling him that Albus Dumbledore was suffering from some odd disease—that the Professors were worried, and that this was all supposed to be very hush-hush.

"If Dumbledore is weak this is the best time to attack the school!" the members of his inner circle urged. And normally he would've agreed with them being that it did seem like the perfect time to take offensive action against the Academy. Dumbledore was apparently incapacitated, Severus Snape was stuck in a house in the woods with his mother, and none of the other teachers knew anything that would be remotely useful in staving off a massive attack by the Death Eaters.

It all seemed much too easy. So, like any other decent analytical mind, he pried further.

The Dark Lord never slept. Yet as of late his consciousness had begun slipping into states that would best be described as "bad dreams". Dreams that derailed his focus and brought back memories of a time he'd really rather have forgotten. Minute inquiry and skilled Legilimency told him that Dumledore was suffering from a more drastic version of the same condition.

Which was troubling, of course, and gave Voldemort three problems to deal with. The first being the source of the minor dissention among the teenagers in his ranks, Death Eaters itching to storm Hogwarts being the second, and a mystery illness rounding out a perfectly inimical trinity.

He'd resolved to take care of the illness first, being that that was the only thing that affected him personally and seemed like the most logical starting place. When he figured out what was wrong and fixed it, they could storm Hogwarts, making the Death Eaters happy. While storming Hogwarts he could find and kill the source of the anti-Voldemort pamphleteer, thus silencing the dissention.

So he sequestered himself in a room in the back of the Riddle mansion. It was rather small, with furniture in need of upholstering and walls wanting paint. Very dusty as well, but he didn't mind. The room was a small, personal library, and Voldemort strolled directly to one of the shelves in the back, pulling out a very large dusty tome— bound in what he would've told anyone in school was leather, but which he knew to be human skin— and turned the pages until he arrived at the section that he was sure would be of the most use to him.

Translated, the label for the text read: **Possession**.

**

* * *

**"Congratulations," Millicent said, crossing her arms 

Blaise looked up from his book, raising an eyebrow as he regarded her with clear, brown eyes. "For what?"

"Pansy said something nasty about Voldy," Millicent replied, "Something about 'job security' the other day."

"Really?" Blaise queried, shutting his book entirely. "So it's working then?"

Millicent shook her head. "No. Just after she said it she got… well, you know how they start cringing all of a sudden, holding their left arms and screaming in pain?"

"Yeah," Blaise nodded.

"Well, that's basically what happened to Pansy."

Blaise winced at this and said, "Oh."

"You know you somehow managed to convince her that Voldemort actually _killed_ Draco," Millicent began, left hand resting on her hip in a way that was almost patronizing. "Is that what you believe?"

"Well, no," Blaise admitted. "But it got the job done, didn't it? We're getting the word out… if Pansy has doubts about Voldemort she won't try to recruit anyone else."

"I'd say that was an awful way to use people, but we're Slytherin," Millicent shrugged. "What about Crabbe?"

"Crabbe couldn't convince a man dying of heat stroke to step into a refrigerator," Blaise muttered derisively.

Millicent's eyebrows raised now and she crossed her arms again. "A what?"

"Muggle thing," Blaise replied with a shrug. "I'll put it in neutral terms: Crabbe couldn't convince a starving man to eat a slice of bread."

"Oh," Millicent muttered, understanding now. "But you never know, do you?"

Blaise smiled at this. A girl after his own heart, she was, and said, "No, I suppose you never do."

**

* * *

**

_thank you: __Adriane, __sexy-__jess, __firesorceress1, __WordE.Smith, __ZippyRox, __BlackAliss, __Mitsuki__ Ashya, __Achicagoil_


	13. fourteen : the key to dreams

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

_the key to dreams_

_November 14, 1996 (Wednesday)_

* * *

Voldemort stared at the book in front of him, realizing dully that he actually felt very, very angry. Not a muscle on his face twitched; his eyes remained blank, thin and red as paper cuts while his cold blood simmered. Off to his left the fireplace spat as the fire died and he lifted his hand calling Pettigrew to stoke it. Had he had lips he might've bit their corners just then. Instead he set down the book carefully and folded his hands over it. 

Anger? Dread? He really couldn't decide which was the more prevalent emotion. Whether he still _really_ had the capacity to feel either. Whether either was justifiable in this case. From what he'd just read… from the things apparently going on, they were.

He hissed lowly and gestured Pettigrew out of the room. The little rat scrabbled over the carpet, tongue seeming to flick between his protruding teeth as his gnomish bulk exited the room. Disgusting thing. Pitiful excuse for a man.

Who was he thinking about just then?

No matter; there were more pressing issues. These days there were always more pressing issues, ever since he'd… ever since he'd _done the bloody right thing_. Power, life, time. Important commodities all three and he'd made his sacrifice for them, torn out his own heart and ingested it damn near died for it.

According to this-he scanned the page again-according to this what _he'd_ given up was more. Much more. And it _had_ killed him. Flesh of my flesh, they said, blood of my blood.

_Remember how dangerous it was to be a halfblood? Do you, Tommy Dearest?_

He shook his head; not the same, not worse, not _wrong_. Right, justified, equal.

_I suppose it can't really be prejudice if you honestly hate everyone equally, but you don't, so what are you doing?_

"The Right Thing," he found himself hissing softly.

The Dark Mark shimmered faintly above the Riddle House. In the night sky it seemed almost like smoke superimposed over some far off constellation. And in various locations in Europe, wizards felt their left arms pulse and found ways to sneak away from dinner engagements and dormitories, apparating to the source.

The rat was knocking on the door softly. Voldemort waved it open and the bulbous man fell in. "M-master?" it stuttered.

"Prepare the council room."

He pulled out a piece of parchment and a bottle of ink, dipping a quill and scratching out a short note. He rolled that up with a few papers copied from his book and called to one of his owls. There was someone who needed to be notified.

* * *

Blaise was trying to make his brown eyes as soft as possible. Brown, soft, soft, brown, easy right? But Harry's eyes were green, green and scary, piercing like little attack dogs. Little, _mean_ attack dogs. Like Pomeranians. _Green_ pomeranians. Under that gaze he felt like the conniving piece of shit he was; a manipulative confidence man and Harry was Captain Halfblood out to champion truth, justice, and the muggleborn way. 

Well, Blaise was actually championing those things too, at the moment, and so what if his methods weren't life-threatening, heroic, and straightforward? He was on the right side, wasn't he? So Harry Potter had no right to be looking at him like he was scum scraped from a rat's ass. In fact, Harry Potter could take his freaky eyes and shove them up his-

Oh, great, now Blaise looked competitive.

The self-haranguing Slytherin let out a dismayed sigh, while Harry wondered seriously about the other boy's sanity. Blaise'd grabbed him in the hall, pulled him aside, and was now staring at him. And sighing.

Harry was beginning to feel just a bit nervous. He had things to do; he had to see Dumbledore again, check if the old man was better today. He didn't have time to stand around and listen to Blaise Zabini _sigh_ at him.

Blaise was still trying to broach the subject Milly had convinced him it was essential to broach. That subject being Dumbledore, of course, specifically what the bloody hell was wrong with him and had anybody noticed yet and were they planning on doing anything about it any time soon? She'd said she thought it might be nice if they could get him fixed before Christmas, because that _would_ make the school more secure, but they'd both agreed they weren't going to be impatient or anything.

It was Milly's idea, but Blaise was doing the grunt work, because he was, quote, "neutral". Milly was ostensibly allied with Draco and the Harry Haters. Blaise was aligned with no one. A loner. Blaise was _quiet_.

Blaise was thinking that maybe from now on he should speak incessantly, never shut up, see if people volunteered him as an emissary to _the_ Harry Potter then. He'd said as much to Milly and she'd rolled her eyes at him and sent him on his way.

He remembered all this now and felt very unloved. And Harry was walking away, so Blaise blurted the first thing that came to mind, which was "MillythinksDumblydorusispossessed!"

Of course, the way he'd said it, it sounded like one long compound word, and Blaise reflected that it was probably the least slick thing he'd ever said and that Milly would get mad at him for dropping her name, but it did do its job. Harry jerked around, freaky eyes blazing and said, "_What?_"

"Erm," Blaise struggled for a follow-up, "Well… you know… he's been acting sort of… well… you know, _odd_… and it's really… just… a… theory?" he finished. He started to worry a bit when Harry didn't reply and said at once "Wellyeahitwasjustathoughtwonderingifyouhadanythoughtsonthematteretceteraampersandetceterabye," before doing an abrupt about face and stepping away.

Harry watched him go three steps, adjusted his glasses, and then asked, "Who's Milly?"

* * *

Mrs. Snape fingered a silver pocket watch, polishing the snake embossed on the front with her thumb while Severus paced the room. To tell or not to tell? It might be better to let the matter die quietly, yet… 

And the boy did have his doubts, his suspicions, and his theoretical explanations for them were never close to the truth. That mess with his father, for example: to some extent it seemed he believed the cover-up story they'd fashioned (he did hate werewolves, after all), but Mrs. Snape couldn't help thinking that her son was smarter than that, less malleable.

She still couldn't believe he was a Death Eater. A traitorous Death Eater to boot. Perhaps if… Her forefinger moved to the catch, the index finger and thumb of her right hand moved to flip back the cover. Severus Snape watched as his mother opened her favorite watch for the first time he'd ever seen. Then his left arm screamed.

And silvery light invaded the room.

* * *

Minerva McGonagall was in the Restricted Section of the library when it happened. An owl flapped in--jet black with red eyes and an ivory beak. Madame Pince was waving her wand at it and shouting, her face transforming into a pinched mass of wrinkles. The owl ignored her and dropped a piece of parchment in the Transfiguration Professor's hands. 

She ignored, for the moment, that no such species of owl as the one that had just winged into her life existed, and opened the parchment as the strange bird flew to the top of the bookshelf and preened. The parchment turned out to be several rolled to look like one, but the cover sheet was the thing that caught Minerva's attention and held it.

"Very," it read, "You've got trouble."

"Very," Minerva repeated, "No one's called me that since-" and here the owl squawked and flew away, Madame Pince chasing it out the door and then stopping to smooth her hair and glare at her colleague once the crisis was over. Minerva wasn't paying any attention. The cover sheet fell to the floor and McGonagall found herself staring at copied pages from a book she wasn't familiar with in handwriting she suddenly realized she recognized. "Oh Dear," she muttered, lowering herself into a seat and beginning to read.

She got to the bit with notations in different ink about hair and noses and bastard sons before throwing the parchment away from her, watching the papers fly and scatter and mumbling, "Ridiculous. A trick. It must be some sort of trick." And she sat quietly while Madame Pince finished restoring the library to order.

It took her a minute or three before she caved in, scooped the papers off the floor and reordered them, adjusting her spectacles and reading intently. It was probably a trick, she thought, but if it wasn't…

* * *

It was more than fire. 

That was what people always said when they saw that scar blackening and darkening, searing itself into his skin. "It looks like it's on fire are you burning are you all right" But it wasn't the same as fire. It was a thousand acid tipped needles driving into his skin; it was glass moving through his circulatory system, ripping arteries, slashing down capillaries, and rending veins all the way to and away from his heart; it was a vacuum, a suction, a constant reminder that he was weak, he was nothing, _nothing_ compared to he who was calling him. He was writhing on the floor, crushing his arm to his shoulder as though it'd come off he let go.

Then a hand was on his arm, pulling it away from him and something cool touched his mark. Silver light flashed and the pain was gone. His mother was securing her pocket watch over his left arm, tucking the chain in and lifting the limb to see if it'd hold. It did. Severus stood up. "What is this?" he asked, lifting his arm.

His mother got off her knees and smiled at him absently. "Nothing dear," she replied, "Go back to pacing."

He didn't listen. He sat back in his chair and stared at her. She smiled more and then went to look out the window. "Where did you get this watch?" he asked, lifting his arm.

"Oh, that," she said nonchalantly, "Tom gave it to me."

* * *

Pansy stood rubbing her arm and glaring at nothing. Sneaking out of Hogwarts was no easy task on its own (though perfect Potter never seemed to have much trouble with it, which was aggravating to no end) and sneaking out of Hogwarts with Vincent Crabbe in tow was nigh impossible. He was huge and had trouble hiding and besides that you could smell him from ten meters off anyway. On top of that they'd had to bring out some of the fifth year recruits and they were noisy little imbeciles. It'd been nothing short of a miracle that they'd all made it out and managed to apparate to the Riddle House without anyone getting splinched. 

But they'd made it against all odds and now stood in a dark corner of a large dining room while the adults spoke among themselves. From what Pansy could gather they were planning an attack on Hogwarts, but she couldn't make out any of the particulars. Crabbe was standing too close to her and breathing down her neck. She stepped away. "What are they talking about?" Crabbe rasped. Too close to her again; he was almost salivating on her ear.

"I don't know," she said, shrugging and inched away again.

Blaise had told her she was making the wrong choice and for a little while she'd believed him. That bit about job security, about the fact that Voldemort had probably killed Draco himself. She'd been weak that day, unable to think straight. She _missed_ Draco and she knew he was still alive. If Voldemort had killed him he'd have displayed the body to make sure all his followers understood perfectly what happened to traitors. She knew he was alive and knew that wherever he was alive at, he wasn't missing her. That hurt, of course, but not as much as she'd thought it would.

Draco, Blaise, Goyle, Millicent, Daphne quite probably now that Blaise'd seen her-none of them _understood_. How barbaric, Blaise wailed, to torture other human beings, to kill, to rape, to treat them like animals. But that was the entire _point_, wasn't it? Mudbloods were not real human beings. They were cockroaches who occasionally managed to scrounge up some modicum of talent. They were polluters, philistines, destroying the very world they attempted to understand so enthusiastically, warping it, sapping the _magic_ out of it. They were a plague, spreaders of magical idiocy, no better than rats. How could it be wrong to treat them like what they really were? Less thans, the lot of them. And that was why Voldemort killed so many of his followers. Because they'd become polluted by the rodents, infected so-to-speak, and had to be exterminated. Mudbloodedness was almost like a virus, Pansy supposed. A pandemic of sorts. How else could you explain families like the Weasleys?

It was proximity, she guessed, that effected the transfer of the disease. And once you had it the blinders set in and you understood things less and less than you had before. Potion making boiled down to ingredients and timing, Charms to diction and wand waving, magic without magic and performing those banal motions would make something in you ache for what you once had like losing an arm or a leg, you'd have the ghostly imprint of your old abilities stamped over every spell you performed. Ghastly existence, horrifying disease, and Draco had caught it.

She still missed him. Missed him, but knew she couldn't see him, knew that given the opportunity to converse with him she'd choose to evade instead. She didn't want that disease; didn't want to be with anyone who didn't understand that the only way to save the wizarding world would be to exterminate all the muggleborn pests, get rid of every last one of them once and for all. Them and their pedagogy, their sad substitutes for innate talent.

Did she really love him then? If she could forget so quickly, miss him and say she never wanted to see him again? Was it really love if nearly every cell in her body was growing indifferent to the thought that she might never touch him again? And if she didn't love him how had it happened? Had she slowly begun falling out of love with him over the years? Had she ever loved him to begin with?

Infatuation, maybe. He was handsome, he was charming and she realized now that was all. She knew him well, she cared about him very much, but he could never have hurt her. Not _really_. Flesh and blood and little underneath.

Before that thought had enough time to make her sad, Voldemort's voice rang through the room. "We march at dawn," he hissed. And then Pansy was cheering along with everyone else, thoughts evaporating in the horde.

* * *

"That's the bloody stupidest thing I've ever heard." 

But even as Harry said it he wondered if it was really true. Setting aside the fact that he had actually heard much stupider things (reported faithfully by Luna Lovegood), Blaise's reasoning was actually… _reasonable_.

Except for that bit where Millicent Bulstrode was actually an intelligent human being disguised as a troll-that still threw him. Aside from that it explained a lot, possession, that was. And raised more questions than Harry'd thought it would.

"I said it was just a theory," Blaise replied his shrug at ease but his manner defensive.

Harry paused. "Why did you think of it?"

"What, that Dumbledore might be possessed?" Blaise asked, left eyebrow raising, "You mean you didn't think he was acting a bit… _odd_?"

"I did," Harry said, "But don't you think there are lots of other better explanations for that?"

The right corner of Blaise's mouth turned up in a mirthless smile. "No, not really," it was his turn to pause as he shoved his hands into his pocket, stared up at the ceiling, closed his left eye, opened it again, sucked in a breath through his teeth, and then turned to Harry. "…See there's this thing called The Book," he started slowly stopping to narrow his eyes, "And, well, it's got all sorts of nifty spells and ritual-things-the perfect desk reference for any Dark Arts practitioner. It's existence is sort of debatable, but supposing it _does_ exist it's supposed to be in Voldemort's hands, and it's also supposed to have loads to do with spells attempting immortality and what-not… seems like the sort of thing he'd have, right?" Blaise stopped here waiting a few seconds for Harry to nod. When the Gryffindor didn't, he went on regardless. "Right, well anyway it's rumored that there's a spell-ritual-thing in there about possession to gain eternal life. Or something to that effect, and Milly and I thought that what-with Voldemore trying to rule the world that sort of thing might be useful or appeal to him or he might be trying it _right now_, and who better to take over than Dumbledore who just so happens to be his greatest enemy?"

"Then why hasn't he-"

"Already attacked?" Blaise interrupted. "Milly says this whole theory's a load of bollocks-and it's _her_ theory-but she says that if it's actually right it'd probably have something to do with something moronic." Harry stared at him blankly. "Like politics," Blaise suggested helpfully.

Harry blinked. "Millicent Bulstrode is smart."

"Yes, very," Blaise said nodding, "Glad you agree with-"

"And she's advocating theories she doesn't even believe in?"

"Well that's not the point," Blaise protested, "See we're supposed to come up with a theory-which we did, and you're supposed to say 'well that's bollocks' and then come up with your own theory and then we take both our theories to-I don't know-Professor McGonagall or someone and we tell them to her and she says 'well you're a bunch of stupid kids' and comes up with a theory of her own and we all sit around in a nice theory making group until someone actually comes up with the right guess," he explained. "At least… in theory."

"So you think we should all sit around and play a nice guessing game?"

"Well," Blaise tilted his head. "More of a hypothesis game, but that's the general ide-"

* * *

"She'd have wanted you to know," it read. "We're coming at dawn and you're going to let us through." 

The enemy of my enemy is my friend, the old adage went, the enemy of my enemy of my enemy of my enemy. Minerva wanted to consult Dumbledore on this matter, but that was impossible. She wanted to talk to Snape, but that option was currently unavailable at the moment as well. She needed to talk to someone about this, explain it, share it, and have it explained back to her. She wanted to notify the staff if just so they could tell her how Very stupid she was being.

Grindelwald? Honestly, of all the preposterous... but what if it wasn't preposterous. What if this was the reason that...

If he wasn't lying, which was highly doubtable, but _if_ he wasn't lying there would be two enemies here, very soon and it'd be up to her to figure out which was worse or try to cover both of them... Oh, bugger, there were Aurors she had to call.

* * *

Long black hair and robes like pitch. A sharp nose and hawkish eyes peering at the world through half-moon spectacles, with rims that curved and jutted sinisterly. Sleek beard, pentagram decked hat, wand in hand --ash, eleven inches, dragon heartstring. This was Grindelwald. This was the Dark Wizard. The terror that plagued halfbloods, werewolves, giants, and anything in between. The man who sought to wipe out every perceived impurity. 

And just across the room, meters and meters away was the man bent on stopping him, keeping from getting out of the Great Hall, making sure the evil wizard hurt none of his students.

"So," the fiend drawled, "You are the famous Albus Dumbledore? Renowned for your magical prowess... a glorified school teacher?"

"You will not leave this room," Albus replied, ignoring the insult. His voice was deep, the statement trite, but the timber heroic.

The villain paid it no mind. "We look alike, don't we?" he asked. "Hair, eyes, nose, excellent choice in spectacles, by the way," Grindelwald stated, tapping his own. "We've even done many of the same things," he continued, smiling. "As a matter of fact, we've got much in common: both Hogwarts graduates- though I _was_ in Slytherin- both top of our classes, Head Boys, not much good at Quidditch, but we did certainly pay attention to it." Dumbledore said nothing and gritted his teeth. Grindelwald went on. "Both precocious, full of potential, both purebloods," he rambled. "Same wand core from the same dragon," the dark wizard taped the tip of his wand to his forehead quickly. "We both have brothers who act like sages and do nothing. We both have interest in foresight and prophecies." Grindelwald stopped for a moment and took a breath, grinning. "The list does go on, doesn't it?" he muttered. "But for a few differences we could've been the same man," he smiled again. "Yet there you are and here I am, the line between us set in stone as it were. Don't you find that interesting, Dear Dumbledore?"

"That we accidentally have a few things in common?" Dumbledore asked, not bothering to conceal the disgust in his tone.

"It's more than that," Grindelwald replied, "Much more than that." He paused. "The universe works in mysterious and ultimately humorous ways, Albus, you'll have to remember that, though, I think, perhaps, you already knew it? Like you must know that even if you defeat me today another _will_ take my place," he said, matter-of-factly. "The wizarding world can't aide two Dark Lords at once, but I don't think it can go without one for very long either. And I think I've met the next one," Grindelwald muttered. "I think he'll be worse than I am and I wish you good luck dealing with him when he comes around." The Dark Wizard shrugged and said, "Well, no sense in wasting any more time, is there? We'd best get to it." And with that he raised his wand and shouted, "Crucio!"

_The aging Headmaster sat at his desk, hands clasped in front of him and resting on the tabletop as he struggled to recall things faint. Before he'd gotten the pensieve... There'd been a slight pressure in his head as thoughts barely remembered scrambled for recognition. He shut his eyes behind his glasses, breathing going shallow. He closed his eyes and shooked his head, before thinking back futher, trying to remember things more faint..._

Two of his students. Tired and dragging a middle-aged woman around. A girl and a boy, the girl kicking at the gargoyle in front of Dippet's office frantically, the boy trying to calm her down.

"What is it?" Albus had asked. "What's wrong; what's happened?"

"My father!" the girl exclaimed, her hair flying wildly. Dumbledore noticed the leaves and twigs tangled in it and his eyes widened in concern. "He... he attacked my house over the... just two... and my... my father, but Tom came for tea and..." she trailed off and looked down, around, up again, before fixing on the boy. Her eyes seemed lost and vacant and dead and Dumbledore worried even more, because he'd never seen this girl this way, never thought he would, not _this_ girl.

"Grindelwald," the boy explained. "Professor we think he followed us, we think... we think he might be coming."

"Sorry," the girl muttered remorsefully, "sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry--"

"We didn't know where else to go--" the boy was explaining again. "We couldn't find any Aurors and we knew no one was here--"

Black hair and brown eyes, black hair and blue eyes. He had an arm around her waist, comforting her, keeping her from breaking into hysterics. She was holding onto the older woman--her mother?-- and trying not to cry. And downstairs a door clamored open, and a mocking voice rose up, calling him down...

_His head snapped up then. Twinkling blue eyes opened, jet black hair shook out. He touched his face and reached for his mirror. There was someone knocking at his door. There was someone on his way to stop him. That boy. But he'd never get through, and even if he did he wouldn't stand a chance. Not even with his followers. Not while the Dark Lord was like this; not after he'd given up so much. _

_The wizarding world couldn't abide two at once._

* * *

The Dark Mark burned again, and Severus found himself writhing on the floor for the second time that day. He wailed in anguish as his mother tried to put the silver pendant to his arm again to no avail. "Stop it!" Severus shouted, "I have to go," he said, wrenching his arm away. 

"Then I'm coming with you," his mother replied, angrily. "He said he'd leave us alone, I distinctly remember hearing him say he'd leave us alone," she muttered. "Where does he want you to go?"

"Hogsmeade," Snape replied.

"All right."

* * *

"that's the general ide--" 

"BLAISE!" Millicent's shout interrupted the boy, causing him to jerk around violently.

"Huh?"

"There's something seriously wrong with Dumbledore," she said, breathless from running as she stood next to them, panting and speaking.

"We knew that," Harry replied, "Blaise was just telling me about what the both of you th--"

"No no no," Millicent said, shaking her head violently. "I was just at his office; I was at his door; I was knocking and he wouldn't answer, but I could hear heavy breathing so I peeked through the keyhole--"

"You spied on the Headmaster?" Blaise asked, incredulously, "That's got to be against some sort of--"  
"SO I peeked through the keyhole," Millicent continued, ignoring him, "And he had his head down--"

"That's not such a big deal, I mea--"  
"He had his head down and his hair was white, like normal, and then he picked it up and his hair was black and he looked--"

"Younger, better, stupider, smarter, more like Sean Connery?"

"Different," Millicent finished, glaring at Blaise. "Different, bad, wrong, sinister, more like... _different_."

"Because of a magic hair change?" Harry asked, eyebrows furrowing.

"There's something wrong," Blaise said, shaking his head. "She's right there's something wrong. Have you seen Pansy lately? Crabbe? Where are all those annoying fifth years hanging about so much?"

"There's something wrong," Millicent echoed, "We have to get you out of the school."

"That's insane," Harry said, shaking his head, "I'm not going to leave the grounds with a pair of Slytherins; it isn't safe."

"We have to get Goyle," Blaise was saying, "I'll get Goyle, you handle Potter, you're right, we should leave."

"Wait a minute," Harry said, reaching for his wand, "I said: I'm not going anywhere."

"We'll go fetch bloody Hagrid if you like," Millicent replied, rolling her eyes. "No need to threaten violence, we'll get him, it's on our way out anyway--through the forest, he's the only person that knows the way. Besides he's friends with things in there, he can keep us safe."

"What exactly do you think is going on?" Harry asked, glaring.

"Don't know," Blaise replied. "But I'm going to get Goyle."

"What about Ron?" Harry asked, "He's in the hospital wing and--"

"I'll get him when I'm getting Goyle," Blaise interrupted. "Meet you at Hagrid's hut." And with that he was gone.

"Let's go," Millicent said, turning to Harry, grabbing the boy wonder's arm and dragging him out of the castle.

_What the bloody hell have I got myself into?_

* * *

"Voldemort can't get into this school." 

Very Mcgonagall shook her head. That was a very fine statement. A very fine plan; a very nice idea. Now how exactly was she going to make it happen? Dumbledore was out of commission. If what the note she'd just got was true he was more than out of commission; he was dangerous. If the note was a lie, well, he was still a bit batty. In any case, Dumbledore had to stay in his office, and Voldemort had to stay off the grounds.

Minerva tried to ignore the fact that she had absolutely no way of making either of those things happen, and swept along the corridors looking for teachers who weren't in their offices. She'd called them all to a meeting in the Great Hall, had the students moved their, had Filch patrolling on the lookout for stragglers. The ghosts were watching the gargoyle in front of the Headmaster's office, the portraits were aiding Filch. No news came out of Dumbledore's office, as though the portraits there were cut off and trapped. This made everyone worried, but Minerva had called the Aurors. They were on their way. They were already lining up in front of the school, but there weren't many of them. The students were being told to stay calm, they were being reminded about how to act when the school was under attack. There'd been drills; they were refreshed. The evacuation policy was gone over. McGonagall called in the Order of the Phoenix and they stood out front, coordinating with the Aurors.

Voldemort would come from the front. They'd see the Dark Mark go up when he neared. The Aurors would handle it. And inside? Inside there was Dumbledore or maybe not Dumbledore anymore, sitting in the Headmaster's office, being potentially dangerous. Inside the ghosts and the portraits were denied entry and exit. Inside... inside, was the monster Voldemort insisted was worse than him. The one he claimed they'd need his help to get out of the school, but if _he_ came into the school he'd never leave.

Minerva stalked outside and walked up to the Aurors. There weren't many of them. "It might be a trick," they'd said, "Voldemort might want to distract us with Hogwarts while he attacks the Ministry." But it wasn't a trick. Very knew it wasn't a trick; it couldn't be. It didn't _feel _like a trick. They had an hour till dawn and Hagrid was missing. No one knew where he'd gone. That was bad. Some of the students weren't accounted for, had they defected? No one could find Harry. Ron was hysterical in the Great Hall, couldn't shut up, or wouldn't. But no one could find Harry. Which the Transfiguration Professor had told the Aurors, and two of them had gone looking for him and no one had heard from_ them_ in a while. "What about Grindelwald?" Minerva asked Mad-Eye, catching his shoulder. "In the note Voldemort sent me, he said--"

"Are you honestly going to believe a note you got from You-Know-Who," another Auror cut in. A young one, with light brown hair. "Grindelwald's been dead for years."

"Voldemort was dead years too," Mad-Eye spat. "Get back in line!" he threw his arm out violently and the young man ran off in the direction indicated. Moody turned back to McGonagall and cracked an eerie, joyless smile. "Never does to be too careful," he said, and went to talk to one of his friends, or colleagues, or superiors, Minerva didn't know which, and a small group of Aurors walked into the castle-- she assumed they were heading for the Headmaster's office. "Go back and watch your students," Moody said, nodding in the direction the Aurors had trotted off in.

Back to the castle, she walked, the grass rustled under her feet. It was cold. She looked back. Not many Aurors. Less than there'd been a half hour ago. Another half hour till dawn. Harry was still missing. Snape was still gone. No one could find Hagrid. Dumbledore was locked in his office and nothing could get out and no one could get in. She thought she heard Fawkes scream as she stepped into the castle, but it was probably just the wind. The students were nervous. She told them to calm down. "It's probably nothing," she whispered to the rest of the staff. "A false alarm or something of the sort." They smiled and nodded at her and she smiled and nodded back and the students saw their teachers smiling and nodding and figured everything was probably all right.

But word spread fast. Harry was gone. Snape was gone. Dumbledore was gone. Hagrid was gone. And so were Pansy and Crabbe and some other Slytherins. Blaise and Millicent. And by the way, where were Hermione and Draco? So every one was still on edge, tense and smiling as though they actually believed everything was all right, as if they thought smiling enough would make what McGonagall whispered true. A false alarm, they repeated, without having heard her. Nothing to worry about.

Just twenty minutes till dawn.

* * *

_What's happened; what have you done?_

The Dark Wizard admired himself at first, in a looking glass he found in one of Dumbledore's drawers. He looked the same as always, he thought. Younger, perhaps.

_But how?_

The voice in his head was a slight annoyance, of course, but one he could live with. It had no control over him. He was, after all, the stronger entity.

_Answer my question! _It exclaimed, pathetically. _What happened!_

"I made a sacrifice," he replied with a sneer. The portraits had all begun cowering in the corners of their frames. They had no way out and no way to warn the rest of the school. "I've all your memories," he muttered to himself, "But these should be clearer, yes?" he lifted the pensieve out from under the desk, the silvery light dancing around in the bowl. He dipped his hand in and smiled, as his mind probed for something he could use...

* * *

"All right," Blaise was saying, "So I lied about getting the Weasley kid, it's not like I've never lied about anything before, right?" 

"Uh," Goyle replied, as he rush-shuffled to keep up with the fast talking speed walking Zabini boy.

"I mean moving Ronnie-boy in his current state of mind, well, he's very suspicious of Slytherins and if I showed up with you he'd start yelling and it'd cause a... a _ruckus_, wouldn't it?"

"What's a ruckus?" Goyle panted.

"And besides that if we took Ronnie-boy we'd have to drag along his rat-faced little sister as well, and Merlin knows _she_ never shuts up, eh, Greg?" Blaise continued.

"Ruckus," Goyle repeated. "What's a... a... ruckus," he finished, heavy breaths falling in between.

"Besides that," Blaise said, shaking a finger at the air, "You can't just up and pull someone out of the hospital wing, Pomfrey would've gotten suspicious, and it's not like we would've been able to move him, because he would've started shouting at us if we showed up, because we're Slytherin and he's got a problem with that."

"Does it mean lots of noise?" Goyle asked.

"Like a commotion," Blaise replied without breaking stride. "So we'll go meet them at the edge of the forest near Hagrid's and I'll say Ron dropped dead of a heart attack, from eating all those steaks and smoking all those cigarrettes and taking all those birth control pills--"

"What are birth control pills?"

"-- and Harry will say, 'oh, that's too bad', and then forget about Ronnie-boy and we'll all skip off happily into the scary, scary forest, right, Goyle?"

"I guess that's self-explanatory," Goyle was mumbling to himself. "Birth control pills, pills that control birth, so you don't get pregnant, but why would Weasel be taking those?"

"Because Hero Potter can't stay in the school, not with what's going to go on, not if it turns out that Dumbledore actually did spazz out and get possessed and not if what we just heard Filch saying is right-- that Voldy himself might be showing up, since Dumbledore is the only thing keeping him out and everyone knows that the Aurors are really no match for You'd-Damn-Well-Better-Know-Who-I'm-Talking-About and if Dumbledore's actually gone to the Darkside, like Milly says he has only she didn't say that, because she's never seen Star Wars, but I trust Milly, so really, we're doing the right thing here, right? Getting Harry out as soon as possible? Because Hogwarts is going to be very dangerous very soon."

"I see what you're saying," Goyle said, slowly. "You're doing one of those things. Ron's not actually taking birth control pills; you're making a joke. That was a joke."

"Sort of," Blaise said, shrugging. "You never know with those Weasleys, they're like--"

"Bunnies?" Goyle supplied.

"Yes!" Blaise exclaimed, "Like bunnies, there're so bloody many of them. Once they start they don't stop. Can you just imagine what that rat-faced brat is going to look like in about a decade?" Blaise asked, spreading his arms out to affect a large belly.

Goyle nodded, "Just look at her mother."

Blaise winced and looked up. "We're almost there-- what was my excuse again?"

"Birth control pills," Goyle replied.

"Oh," Blaise said dismally. "Yeah."

"Hagrid's big, isn't he?" Goyle asked.

"Yeah."

* * *

_How do you think you're going to keep them under control once you get to the castle, hmm? They're luuuunatics, Tommy Dearest._

"There will be Aurors at the front," he said to Lucius. "We'll have to be extremely careful about how we approach this."

"Why will there be Aurors?" asked Lucius. "Nobody knows what we're planning."

"Take my word for it," Voldemort said, "There will be Aurors in the school," he continued. "We'll have to be careful, stealthy, subtle. Our aim is the Headmaster's office; it will be your job to provide a distraction out front. I will sneak in through the forest. You are not to enter the castle, do you understand me, Malfoy?

"Yes, my Lord."

"Good, now go and make your preparations."

"Yes, my Lord," Lucius bowed and exited the chamber. Voldemort put his hands to his head once the minion was gone. This wasn't going to be easy. Calling Very had ensured some form of control. There would be Aurors and if there were Aurors his Death Eaters wouldn't be able to attack students. It wasn't time for that yet. He couldn't be distracted with the need to control them. There was one person in that castle he needed to take care of and it wasn't Harry Potter. Not yet.

A loud POP! echoed through the chamber as Mrs. Snape and her son apparated in front of him. "What do you want?" asked the elder angrily. "You said you'd leave us alone!"

"Grindelwald will be in Hogwarts," Voldemort said, "If he isn't already, that is."

"That's impossible," Mrs. Snape replied. "He was defeated, remember? Just a year after he harrassed you-- he never set a foot in Hogwarts again after that day and, well, he's dead now."

"Mostly," Voldemort said. "I've already alerted Very."

"McGonagall?" Mrs. Snape asked.

"We're going to attack the school," replied Voldemort, "I'm going to get rid of Him once and for all."

"And then install yourself, I presume," Severus sneered.

Voldemort made no reply to that. "The both of you are going to effect the evacuation of students from Hogwarts," he said.

"What?"

* * *

Hagrid was big. Hagrid was three times her size, but that didn't seem to matter to Millicent while she yelled at him, cajoled, lectured, and finally grabbed is humongous arm and started tugging it in the direction of the Forbidden Forest, pointing, shouting, gesturing at the castle, explaining again and again and again. Hagrid wouldn't move. He kept looking in askance at Harry and Harry kept staring in disbelief at Millicent while she repeated the words "There's something wrong with Dumbledore, you can't tell Dumbledore Voldemort is coming because there is _something wrong with him_ so we _have to leave_ because it _is not safe here_." 

This was how Blaise and Goyle found the three of them. "What's going on?" Blaise asked as he approached.

"Where's Ron?" was Harry's reply.

"Couldn't be moved," Blaise shrugged, "What's going on?"

"What do you mean he couldn't be moved?" demanded Harry, angrily, his hand was twitching near his wand.

"Hagrid won't move," Millicent spat, unibrow drawn in frustration. "Wants to go to Dumbledore, somehow _does not_ understand that Dumbledore is currently incapacitated and quite probably EVIL, despite the fact that I've told him a _million bloody times_."

"I'm not leaving without Ron!" Harry exclaimed.

"Oh, _yes you are_," Millicent hissed, her eyes narrow and voice all malevolence. "YOU," she jabbed a finger at him. "Are the prophecised defeater of Voldemort, yes? And you can't defeat Voldemort if he _kills_ you first while you're trying to grab your currently insane best friend, correct?" Harry blinked at her. "GOOD!" she exclaimed, "I'm glad we're on the same bloody page, now if you could kindly get your giant friend to escort us and be a nice adult bodyguard while we escape this soon to be deathtrap through that soon to be deathtrap," she said, pointing first at the castle and then at the forest. "We'll all be great! All RIGHT?"

Harry took a nervous step away from her. She seemed just a bit hysterical, just a touch unhinged. "Hagrid," he began, "They're right; we have to go; there's no time," Harry stated. "We'll join up with the rest of the Order once we're far enough away from the castle."

"Ye can't be trustin' Slytherins, 'Arry," Hagrid said, shaking his head.

"We have to," Harry replied, "Because there _is _something wrong with Dumbledore," Harry said, "Just this once."

Hagrid nodded, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Just this once," he repeated.

"About time," Millicent muttered, crossing her arms.

"We should get going," Blaise suggested.

"Yeah."

**

* * *

_end notes_: **Ten points for anyone who recognized the title (from a series of Magritte paintings, my favorite of which is the one with the horse the door the clock the wind the pitcher the bird and the valise the valise). There's no Tom and Hermione romance _yet _because that would spoil the story. It's like if Scully and Mulder had started making out in Season One of the X-Files there would be no show. Well, there'd be a show but... you know... yeah. Plus he's evil. But that'll definitely start up in chapter... fifteen, sixteen something like that. Whenever December rolls around, which... hmmm yeah. I don't know. That was for Hermione Charlotte... Hermione Charlotte right? 

Oh yeah, and I don't own Star Wars. Or the Magritte painting. Or the X-Files. I'm actually poor and own a whole lot of nothing except books and CDs. So... err... yeah.

_THANK YOU!_

_ZippyRox - Sporks were not made to be instruments of war! They were made to be the _coolest_ eating utensil ever… (or catapults…but…peaceful catapults)._

_sexy-jess - Well, this chapter should be longer so… yay?_

_Mitsuki Ashya - He's probably having trouble remembering them because of his bad dreams. Poor thing… or not, but you know… yeah._

_marauder no. five - updated!_

_JellyBellys - Phenomenal? Hyperbole! But thanks anyway._

_ne-ma-pa-sa-ra - Thanks for all the reviews! I hope this is soon enough? And yeah… RIP Ernest sniffle I'd reply to all thirteen of your reviews but I'm lazy and tired, but you're awesome, you know that, right?_

_trapped-in-a-dream - I like Blaise… -smileyfacehere-_

_kitty28 - It was a good trip, thanks. Well, tiring. But anyway, this is soon-ish… right? _

_kippie - err I emailed you, so right. _

_Ptrst - Thanks for the review and the criticism. I'll keep that in mind... the whole Dracopointless thing. Chapter fifteen actually has a sort of Draco focus? His character is a slow developer. This story is going to be long. Evil computers are... eeeeevil._

_mopee - Updated, though not that soon._

_Looney Ferret- They're Tiny they're Tooney they're all a little..._


	14. fifteen : no dice

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

_November 17, 1942 (Friday)_

_no dice_

* * *

_**Note: obviously thisfic differs from canon. It's still trucking along and it's now AU because of book 6 (as if it wasn't before).

* * *

**_

She cornered him in a stairwell where she'd actually been hiding for hours, waiting for him to walk by, feeling like she was some sort of psychopathic stalker. She'd spent her time reading as she waited, parchment in hand, quill poised to take down notes on anything that seemed relevant.

The only thing on the parchment when Draco did finally pass was an ink blot that'd dropped off her quill and Hermione felt her frustration with books on time travel growing exponentially as the minutes ticked by. She _still _hadn't found anything more than speculation and theory- mostly related to time turners, which were still extremely basic this decade. Which was why she needed Draco's help. Which was why when Malfoy stepped in front of her she felt like tackling him just to make sure he couldn't run away and leave her stranded with this utterly inimical dilemma.

Instead, she grabbed his arm. "Malfoy!" she said, "Wait."

He turned, glared at her, tried shaking his arm to get her to let go, tried nudging her with his foot to get her to let go, tried burning a hole through her wrist with the force of his gaze to get her to let go, and when none of these worked, said, "Let go of my bloody arm, you filthy mudblood."

She didn't get mad. She refused to be angry with him. She was calm, she was collected, she was icy. Nothing he said could get to her… At least that's what she'd wanted. Instead she ended up gritting her teeth to keep from snapping at him, remembering that she'd done this less than a week ago when they'd first arrived in this time period, and wondering what was making her so irritable. Then she figured the answer to that was fairly obvious, and calmly said, "I need your help."

"No, I don't know anything about time travel; no, I wasn't carrying some sort of Dark Arts device; no, I don't feel like helping you study, and no, I don't want to call a truce."

She did _not _feel like bursting into tears of absolute frustration. "But if you don't help me, we could be stuck here for-a very long time," she almost shouted, managing to stop herself from saying the word "forever".

"And what exactly is wrong with that?" Draco asked. "I'm comfortable. You seem to be having a good time with Mr. Riddle; maybe if you have a good enough time with him he'll forget about his anger toward mudbloods. Then we won't be here and the problem fixes itself, doesn't it? Unless you create some sort of paradox, where if we weren't here you wouldn't have been here to make sure that we weren't here in the first place and you accidentally destroy the universe, but either way the problem's solved, isn't it?"

Hermione stared at him for a minute—just a minute, probably less—in incredulity before slapping him soundly. "How dare you even _imply_ that—"

"Lovely way to try to get me on your side, Granger. What, did you honestly think I'd respond well to abuse?" Draco spat, holding his injured cheek.

"It worked for your father," Hermione hissed back, regretting the words before they'd even left her mouth, unable to believe she'd actually said them moments after.

Draco was glaring at her. "Insults now, Granger?" he asked, sneering, "I can't believe they used to say you lacked social skills," he tossed off sarcastically as he leveled her with a piercing stare, voice flippant as he said, "My father never touched me."

The contrast caught her off guard for a second, but she was back on in no time. "Malfoy," she started, "I didn't mean—"

"Yes you did," was the reply. "And you can ask all you want, mudblood, I'm not going to help you or work with you or answer to you; I'm not going to be your neutered little Slytherin bitch, so why don't you just run back to your books? They're the only thing you're good at anyway."

She couldn't help what she did next—something inside her just _snapped_, and the next thing she knew Malfoy's back was to the wall and her arms were on his shoulders, pinning them there and her mouth was near his ear and she was practically shouting again, "Malfoy you're going to help me if I have to superglue your hands to this book to do it," she said, temporarily leaving his right shoulder open to grab at one of the time travel theory books and shake it at him menacingly. "All right!"

And Draco, who could only sort of guess at what superglue was, knew it probably wasn't something he'd want done to him and, realizing that firstly Hermione would never go through with it and secondly that she'd taken a hand off him and he was _much _bigger than her, took the opportunity to shove her back. She stumbled in reverse a few paces—he hadn't pushed her hard—and stared at him numbly.

"I told you, mudblood," he stated coldly, "I want nothing to do with you." And with that he turned around and strode off in the direction he'd been heading before she'd accosted him, while she was left standing near the stairs amidst a pile of overturned, open books marred by quickly creasing pages and ink blots.

Standing there, pathetically as she was, she had to wonder what the hell had happened. All she wanted was help, and she'd planned on being calm; he'd just been so obnoxious and… she'd _pinned him to the wall_? This part surprised her the most and got her to reassess the situation. Was she really wound that tight? With a shake of her head she began to gather up her books and quills and ink, shoving them into her bag hastily.

It was around this time that Elaina walked by, looked down, and said, "Oh! Are you related to _Willoughby _Rush by any chance?"

Hermione jumped back, startled. "Who?"

"The bartender at the Hogs Head," Elaina supplied, kneeling down to help Hermione gather her books. "Apparently researches time or something to that effect—you'd have to ask Eris," she said, handing Hermione a pair of volumes. "Just thought for a minute that it might be a family interest."

"The bartender at the Hogs Head researches time?" Hermione asked, taking the books and stuffing them into her bag.

"Eris says he measures it in shots," Elaina smiled and, at Hermione's scowl added, "but I'm sure she was joking. You can probably talk to him next Hogsmeade visit. Or get Eris to talk to him for you, rather. He's not very friendly toward new people."

"Then how does Eris know him?" Hermione stood up and slung her bag over her shoulder. She crossed her arms and looked down at Elaina.

"Well," Elaina replied, stretching her legs a bit before standing up as well. "You know her. Or you don't. But I'm already late, so we'll really have to continue this conversation later."

"Late for what?" Hermione asked. But the other girl was already gone.

* * *

Draco wanted whiskey and lots of it. Forget the chaser. Who needed chaser? Chaser was for wimps. He could drink it straight. Maybe vodka would be better. Vodka fucked people up _real _quick. He could find some vodka. 

He wanted to be stupid just then. Stupid and alone.

The last person he wanted to run into after that encounter with Hermione was Eris and she ended up walking straight into his chest without either of them noticing what was going on till they collided.

"Agh!" She yelped, faltering backward. "You look happy."

"Get out of my way, mudblood," he hissed at her. He was sick of these filthy things, sick of coming in contact with them, sick of speaking to them.

She tilted her head to one side and fixed him with a stare more piercing than any he'd ever come in contact with save one. Her face was still a mask of oblivion, she was still smiling slightly, but those eyes… "I love the way you say that," she said, giggling. "Mudblood. Always as though it's someone else's word, not yours, have you noticed?" He noticed she was beginning to frighten him slightly.

He glanced at her face in suspicion. It was inscrutable. He shifted, missing the opportune time for his comeback. "I—"

"You," she repeated, almost mockingly. "Are not yourself." And the stab in her eyes faded and softened; she seemed almost sad when she looked up at him just before walking away, shrugged in defeat and said, "Don't worry." She smiled wanly. "Don't worry. I get it. You'll be fine. I promise."

She was gone before he could say anything back. Before he could say anything at all or call anything after her. He didn't care. Had he been of a more melodramatic bend he would've spit after her, but he wasn't, so he didn't. Instead he put her out of his mind. Crazy, stupid mudbloods and their insane violence and asinine prophecies.

* * *

And, to Hermione, at least, dinner was the same as it always was. They all sat in what seemed to be their assigned places. She tried not to make eye contact with anyone, though Tom did attempt to talk to her again. He and Eris got into another pointless argument. Hermione tried not to pay attention. She poked at the vegetables on her plate and tried not to think about much of anything. All she wanted was to go home. 

"You ready for Quidditch tomorrow?" Amias asked Draco.

Draco shrugged. "I hope so."

"Don't worry," Amias said. "I get. You'll be fine, really."

Draco seemed to start at that, jumping slightly and looking around nervously. "Thanks."

And Amias smiled.

No one spoke to Hermione the entire night and that was absolutely fine.

* * *

**end notes: **So I was checking my email. Remembered this story. Realized there was still a lot I wanted to do with it and finished this chapter (I have a few completed chapters written for later in the plot that I need to get to) No Thank Yous! This chapter because I have two four page papers due tomorrow that I haven't started and a midterm. Oh the uber-funness. I realize this is short and am sorry but the next one should be much longer due to its being a Quidditch game and some issue with a Quidditch team and out much sooner due to the fact that I finally got a computer. Yeah. 

**Reviews are always loved and appreciated. Especially articulately negative ones ).**


	15. sixteen : a dangerous liaison

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

_November 18, 1942 (Saturday)_

_a dangerous liaison

* * *

_

Elaina was headed for the Gryffindor common room. She knew the password (it was candy-cane as compared to the Slytherin password, which was now abattoir) and her way around.

Unlike Amias and Eris and Tom, she didn't have an army of friends in that house, but she did have one and he was important enough so that no one bothered her.

The game didn't start till eight; she didn't have to get married till she was eighteen. They both had time.

This was the second day in a row she was dropping by, though, and normally that never happened. Normally they were smarter, but there were just so many things that…

Eris liked to laugh when Amias said not to worry these days. She said if we don't worry now we won't be in any position to worry later. Said something needs to be done and immediately and Kerstan said well I think it's not so much of a problem and if anyone was going to do anything about _it_, who would it be, _you_?

_Eris_? Of course not.

Elaina stepped through the fat lady's portrait--the first time she'd managed to do so in years without spurring an argument with that outsized persnickety… and looked around. This place always made her nervous. Oh, sure they were fine with Slytherins, they were fine with Eris who everyone was fine with and Tom who everyone was fine with except for Eris and Amias who everyone loved, but Elaina?

Too pretty, too Slytherin, too _red_ and not the right kind, either, the kind that was like blood, that might make you bleed just to see it. Ridiculous.

She waited. There were only a few first years around. Or second years or whatever they were--after a point anything other than fifth was practically a first year. _I've gotten old_. A cheery fire burned bright and conversations were loud and joyous, punctuated with bouts of laughter. Games of Exploding Snap were going on at random tables. The room _breathed_.

And he didn't keep her waiting long, swept down the staircase arms outstretched practically running toward her. "Elle," he effused--and he was the only person allowed to call her that. The only person in the world.

She grinned. "Daniel."

* * *

"Potter," Draco mumbled to himself. He stalked across his room and back. Potterpotterpotter. Always a goddamned Potter. And they couldn't just have taken up ceramics or something, like their name suggested--they always had to be seekers, always had to be good guys. 

He felt sick. If he were the sort of person that sweated bullets he might have been doing so just then.

There were five hours till the game started though, which meant four hours since he had to be at the field for warm-ups. Kerstan had tried giving him a pep-talk earlier and that'd gone something along the lines of "Well, it's Potter and you're new. No one expects you to win, so you shouldn't worry if you lose. Even if this is Slytherin."

And that'd given Draco a grand boost of confidence, it had. Not win? Was the man out of his bloody mind?

Draco didn't want to contemplate that hypothetical. Especially since the answer was most likely a resounding "YES!"

He did want to get on the field, though. Fly around it a few times, calm himself down-- it would be nice and good. He closed his eyes and could practically feel the wind biting his cheeks and whipping his hair and when he opened them he wanted the reality. Badly.

It didn't take another thought for him to grab his broom and practically race out of the dormitory at a sort of stomp walk, through the halls, out the door, across the grass, it all went by in a practical blur until he was there. He inhaled deeply, felt his shoulders rise, and looked at the sky.

He mounted his broom and kicked off with a smile on his face.

It was a nice day.

* * *

Hermione was trying to depilate the top of her scalp with her fingernails. Well, not actually, but she assumed that'd be the end result. 

Book after book after bloody book and none of it had anything to say about her particular situation.

Oh, there was one option, of course. Follow Elaina's tip, ask Eris for an introduction to the bartender at the Hogshead and then ask _him_, but that would involve talking to Eris. There was a great idea. Ask the loony Slytherin girl who was quite probably doped up on some belladonna draught half the time.

And who'd known enough about time travel to comment on Hermione's choice of reading material that one day…

Hermione slammed her book shut—the sound of it displacing dust and causing Madame Pince—Ms. Stryce to shoot her a dark glare. She shook her head, standing up resolutely, and marched out of the library.

She was going to the Slytherin common room.

And then she was going _home_.

* * *

Surreal. 

That's what it was. Hundreds of feet above the ground, flying high, not a care in the world. He looped and dove and made his crappy Comet go as fast as he bloody well could. He was absolutely free, there existed nothing that could tie him down. In fact, if he wanted, he could just pull up and drift away…

"MALFOY!"

Impossibly a voice cut through the roaring wind. He recognized it and chose to stay afloat.

"Are you cheating?" it asked after a few seconds.

He said, "No."

"You'd better come down," it said. "They'll _think_ you're cheating which is just as damning. You're a _Slytherin_, remember?'

He ran this unfortunate truth through his head and started descending. And when he was near enough to the ground, he saw that it was exactly who he thought it would be and decided not to go down any further.

"You'll have to get off the field," she said. "Amias can't be accused of foul play, it'll kill him, really it will."

Eris. Mudblood. Teasing and like a… like a bad omen.

Draco shook his head (_Bad omen? Who am I, Trelawney?_) and landed.

"I'm sorry," she was saying, shaking her head. "We've been accused of cheating before, though, back in second year. It wasn't nice."

"I can imagine," Draco replied flatly.

"I mean, Amias and us, we're all right with the rest of the school, but it still takes some getting used to. We're all Slytherins and there are people who don't understand that we're not like _that_," she went on almost mournfully.

Something a little bit brazen came out of Draco just then. He said: "Of course not. You're all more dangerous than that."

And Eris relaxed her shoulders. "You're smarter than you look," she almost sighed. "I always thought you were. Or that at least…" she narrowed her eyes and paused.

"I think you know more than you should," she continued. "I think the less you say about it, the better it'll be for you."

"I've no idea what you're talking about," Draco replied.

Eris nodded; her hand moved to her chest--as though to reach for a necklace of some sort, but the only thing there was that snake wrapped tightly around her. It gave Draco a measured look and he turned away from it. He remembered something then, and was about to ask about it, but Eris gave him a steady stare and he took that as a warning.

The snake hissed.

"Well then," Eris said, cheerily. "Toodles. Don't forget to leave and don't go to the lockers, whatever you do."

She walked away and Draco stood with a question at the tip of his mind.

Something about pocket watches.

* * *

She wasn't in the common room. She wasn't in the dormitory. She wasn't anywhere in that dank basement that somehow passed for a House of Hogwarts and Hermione had to stop and take a few deep breaths to calm herself down before she went half mad. 

"You know," someone said, "We used to get _real_ History of Magic."

The former Gryffindor jumped, head jerking toward the source of the noise.

Tom Riddle was holding a textbook and shaking his head, apparently ignorant of her reaction. "None of this bollocks about 'greedy goblins' and the like, I mean house elves--do you know our textbook has not a word to say about them? Not _one word_. But once upon a time they were an actual freestanding community--an independent species, I mean they had absolutely _nothing_ to do with cleaning any houses except for their own. They were _forest_ creatures, for Merlin's sake, and do you know what we did?"

Hermione was dumbstruck. She shook her head, because it was the truth. She hadn't known any of this.

"It's not in any of the books any more--hasn't been for years. You've got to dig, I mean _really_ dig and have loads of access to the restricted section and the confidence of very aged people in very powerful positions, but what we did--no, what _they _did, the wizards, of course, they took the elves from the forest, kidnapped them in droves and started _conditioning _them, they enslaved them they controlled the poor things psychologically and they did this for so many generations that after a while no elf remembered where they came from. Did you know? Of course at first there were rebellions, but any actively resisting elf was summarily executed,"

He paused for a breath. "They trained them to be subservient. They told them they were lesser and made them believe it, made them dependent and once they were weak enough they bound them with magic too powerful and old to be easily cracked now--if there's any way it's even possible, I mean all of that ties back to the Ministry and Their power, which is more than most people think it is."

He shook his head. "And we tried to get a house elf to be an elf again, like the old ones once. Devoted ourselves to it absolutely for a week before the poor thing went mad. I mean once in a while, once in a great while you get one that knows what freedom means and wants it, but as for the others."

He shook his head again and all of a sudden looked sheepish. Hermione's eyes had grown large and she noticed she'd backed herself against the wall. Tom said, "I'm sorry you had to hear that."

Hermione blinked. "It's quite all right," she replied, wondering if what he'd just said was true. About the house elves, that was.

"Have you heard, though?"

"Heard what?" Hermione asked.

"They're cancelling Theory," Tom replied. "You're not taking it, I know, but there's a vice and it's closing on us," he said. "What'll they teach in this place once they've killed two of the most important classes offered? The entire school will just be a factory for a bunch of simple wand-waving-potion-crafting-spell-reciting automatons. I suppose if you cut down on things offered the propensity or the tools with which evil doing can be accomplished are lessened," he said. "But so is the propensity to do good. To create, to be different, and to _think_. What are the first years going to do when they get to be our age if all they get from this school is the ability to memorize properly?"

Hermione blinked again.

Tom said, "I'm sorry." He nodded at her. "It's just you happened to be the first person I ran into and…" he fixed his gaze on the wall, furrowing his eyebrows. "This is important to me."

"I understand," Hermione replied surely. And strangely enough, she did.

"Thank you," Tom said offering a thin, troubled smile. "For listening. I don't usually…"

"It's fine," Hermione replied, ungluing herself from the wall.

"Well," Tom said, "Thanks again." And turned to walk away.

Hermione stood for a second before an idea popped into her head. She knew she would probably regret asking, but she raised a hand tentatively. "Do you know where Eris is?"

"Quidditch field with Draco," Tom replied without even turning back. Hermione imagined his eyes narrowed. "Though I don't know why you'd ever want to find _her_."

Then he was saying the password and in the common room. Hermione, still standing in the hallway, massaged her forehead.

Tom Riddle the champion of house elf rights and quality education? Of course not. It was absurd. For obvious reasons. It was…

Hermione didn't care any more. Couldn't think about it. Maybe Draco could think of a way to strangle Tom Riddle in his sleep and end the mess for everyone. Hermione huffed and took off for the Quidditch field.

* * *

"You need to be down there in ten minutes," Elaina urged, lightly pushing Daniel toward his broomstick. 

"I know," he said, "I know." He turned around and took hold of her elbows. "But we do need to talk."

"About what?" Elaina asked, all flippancy.

"You know," he stated sternly. "You've been avoiding all day today. And yesterday as well."

"There's nothing to talk about," Elaina smiled. "Now, really, you have to get ready…"

"No," Daniel replied. "No, this is our last year."

"I'm well aware of that. You want to go out winning, don't you?" Elaina picked up his broom and held it out to him.

He took it and kept it at his side. "Are you really going to go through with it?" he asked.

"With what?"

"Don't play with me; I deserve better," Daniel replied almost harshly. "The marriage," he said, "Yours. To Ardennes?"

"Of course," Elaina said, "I have to."

"Then where does that leave us?" he asked, Gryffindor eyebrows drawing together as his shoulders slumped. He looked almost pathetic.

She took his hand. "We'll graduate," she explained with a smile. "Flying colors. And then… I'll marry Ardennes and you'll marry that nice girl your parents've picked out for you. Violet, was that her name?"

"That's not good enough, Elle," he shook his head, obstinate. "I love you."

"There are outside circumstances," she tried to say. "Ardennes… he has a… a condition."

Daniel leaned forward. "What do you mean?"

* * *

Draco paced, broom in hand. Amias walked up to him and clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't worry," his grandfather--_cousin_ now, assured. "Daniel is good. He's damn good, actually, and he'll try to trick you," Amias warned. "Don't fall for it, all right? Stay alert and we'll do our best with the scoring." 

Draco nodded and Amias took this as a good sign, smiled and walked around the room giving the other teammates specialized pep talks. The Comet was a problem, Draco thought. It was slower than what he was used to, but he'd been acclimating himself to it.

The score. Some part of him scoffed at that. What did the score matter? Just silly numbers in a silly game and none of his concern.

He felt a bit sick. Amias called "Five minutes till we go out. Is everyone ready?"

And Draco nodded.

* * *

Hermione made her way up the crowded bleachers. It was Gryffindor against Slytherin, which of course produced a heavy turnout--she spotted Elaina somewhere high up and aimed for one of the seats around her. It was a Quidditch game, after all. There was no doubt that Eris would be in attendance and Tom would be as far away as he could get. 

Both of these facts worked to Hermione's advantage.

Elaina seemed to notice her and waved her toward a seat to the left of her. Hermione nodded and walked faster.

"Didn't expect you to be here," Elaina said as Hermione got close. "Then again, it is your boyfriend against the greatest seeker in Hogwarts history, one Mr. Daniel Potter," she teased.

"Draco isn't my boyfriend," Hermione replied and looked around the field. "Do you know if Eris is coming?" she asked.

"Going to ask her about your chronological concerns?" Elaina joked, continuing before Hermione could figure a response. "She'll be here. She should be here; actually, I can't think what's keeping her."

"Oh," Hermione replied.

"Look," Elaina pointed. "It's Ardennes." She waved him over.

"I don't think I've ever heard him speak," Hermione mused aloud. "I'm sure I must have though."

"He's very quiet," Elaina said. "Keeps to himself mostly."

_And brews illegal sleeping potions for his fellow classmates._ Hermione thought quietly. As he neared, she whispered. "Is he all right? He looks a bit pale."

"Oh, I'm sure he's fine," Elaina replied and grinned. "You're out and about at this time of the month?" she asked him as he took his seat in front of her.

"Yes," he said softly. "I usually miss this and I thought maybe this time I wouldn't."

Hermione looked at him closely. There wasn't much Snape-like about him. His nose was straight and carried an air of nobility. His hair was an attractive light brown and not the least bit greasy and there was something about his eyes--they were warm and brown and somewhat sad.

He reminded her of someone she knew although she couldn't think who at the time. Definitely not Snape.

"We're getting married," Elaina clapped Ardennes on the shoulder and turned to Hermione.

"It's arranged," he said, sending an apologetic look Elaina's way.

_Curious_, Hermione thought.

"Well, yes," Elaina said, lowering her head. "But we'll make the best of it." She smiled at Hermione and something about it seemed a little desperate. "Can you just picture it?"

And Hermione found she couldn't. Elaina's nose was on the small side. Her hair was dark, yes, almost pitch and a little wavy. Snape's hair didn't wave at all. Elaina's eyes were on the small side, but her lips were full and probably made for pouting. Whereas Snape's were all thinness. Barely there.

Something about their faces didn't quite add up either. She could see bits and pieces, of course. High cheekbones in Elaina, the forehead, perhaps, and the narrow chin.

Hermione didn't have much time to meditate on this curiosity. "Eris!" Elaina shouted, interrupting her. The girl waved largely and Eris turned toward them.

She took a seat next to Hermione. "How did your meeting go?" she asked Elaina first.

"It was complicated," Elaina replied. "I'm sure it'll work out, though."

"That's good," Eris said. She patted Ardennes on the shoulder. "It's good to see you," she said. "I've been wondering where you were."

"Here and there," he replied, beaming.

"You didn't ask me to the ball," Eris said. "I was waiting."

"I was meaning to," he replied. "But I--" he glanced at Hermione so quickly she almost failed to catch it. "I can't make it."

The snake on Eris's neck hissed violently. The girl smiled. "It's all right," she said, "Thank you for meaning to."

Ardennes said, "Of course." And turned around with a quick nod.

"Eris," Hermione said, leaning a bit toward Elaina and afraid of tapping the girl on the shoulder. The snake seemed to be seething.

"Yes?" Eris asked, turning. Her expression seemed blank. "The game's about to start. Isn't it wonderful?"

"Elaina said that you know the bartender of the Hogshead…"

"Oh, he won't give you free drinks," Eris replied, "Believe me, I've tried asking. A million times before and the answer's always 'Maybe when you're older, darling'."

"I don't want any drinks," Hermione said.

Eris raised an eyebrow. "Well, what else would you want to talk to him for?"

"My time travel research," Hermione replied. "It's what I want to do once I get out of Hogwarts--build a better time turner, that is, and I was wondering."

"Time Travel Research?" Eris asked. "Why would you want to talk to him, then?"

"Well, I thought…"

Eris smiled. "It's like this," she said. "When you're drinking, time absolutely flies by whereas when you're sober it sort of plods along second by second, minute by minute, on and on…"

"Is that… all?" Hermione asked.

Eris said, "Shhh. The game's starting."

And it was. Hermione resigned herself to watching the field.

The players were named and the rules gone over. The whistle was blown by some teacher Hermione had seen around, but didn't know and off they went.

The Slytherins pulled ahead early, scoring ten, twenty, thirty points as they deftly dodged bludgers and passed. Then one of them--Hermione squinted and recognized him as Andrew Crow dropped the quaffle, straight into the hands of a Gryffindor chaser whose name she didn't know.

Hermione was unsure about which house she should've been cheering for. The Gryffindor chaser threw the ball toward a goal and it was rebuffed by the Slytherin Keeper. The chaser caught the rebound and snuck it past, scoring Gryffindor ten.

Gryffindor was ahead by fifty, when their seeker--Daniel Potter made a beeline toward something only he could see. Draco stayed where he was, though, eyes narrowed, and Daniel gave it up halfway. _A feint_, Hermione, thought. And one that didn't work.

Amias used the tail end of his broom to knock the quaffle into a Gryffindor goal, causing ten points and a round of cheers from the Slytherin side of things.

Elaina's eyes were on the seekers. "What are they doing?" she asked.

"I suppose neither of them have spotted it yet," Eris commented.

"Well, yes," Elaina said, "It is quite small, but usually with Daniel in the game it never takes this long."

"Mmm," Eris said, distracted--a bludger was flying straight toward Kerstan who, with the quaffle, was flying straight toward a Gryffindor goal. Either Jacob or Ethan blocked it-- Hermione couldn't tell them apart yet and rather doubted she'd ever have to. And Kerstan made the score.

And Eris said, "He sees it."

"Who?" Elaina asked, fiddling with her binoculars.

Hermione looked up too and couldn't tell. They both seemed to be hovering. If one knew, he definitely didn't want the other to know.

Then Draco, suddenly, started diving, straight for the ground at top speed. The crowd went into an uproar, the announcer started shouting about the snitch and Daniel followed, quickly. The Gryffindor seeker was catching up and they were both about to kiss grass when Hermione realized what it was.

"Wronsky," she whispered, but the word was drowned out in the furor.

Everyone was shocked when Draco pulled up at the last second and went zooming off to the right. Daniel, on the other hand continued diving a few seconds too late. Only his reflexes saved him from crashing completely, but the tip of his broom broke off and he went flying forward a few feet without it, skidding as he landed.

Draco, meanwhile, hovered triumphantly, Snitch in hand.

The game was over. The score read Slytherin - 200 Gryffindor - 70.

Elaina practically bolted out of her seat and stood shaking a little.

"Is Daniel all right?" Eris asked.

Ardennes said. "It seems so. The nurse is after him, see?"

Elaina said. "Oh… Oh, I'm so happy we won."

* * *

"That was brilliant!" Kerstan exclaimed, clapping Draco on the back. 

"I've never seen anyone outfox Daniel Potter," Amias said.

"Yeah," Agreed Jacob Isaac. "Where'd you learn that?"

Draco shrugged and tried not to smile too widely. "I picked it up," he said.

"Well," Kerstan said, "It was great. He'll never fall for it again, but it was great!"

"There's a bottle of fire whiskey with your name all over it," Ethan Isaac assured.

Draco grinned. It still hadn't fully sunk in.

He'd won.

He beat _Potter_. Maybe not the exact one, but one of them all the same.

He thought, "This is a nice day." As his team cheered him on.

* * *

**End notes:**

How long has it been since I've updated this fic? Very. I wonder if anyone's still reading it and for those who are, Thank Yous are much due. Also, the author promises a new chapter by next week-- in fact, she's already in the process of writing it.

_donahermurphy – I haven't updated that fic in a while. Cupid's Trick right? I may not. I've been meaning too, but life and all. I hope you're still reading this one, though, because this is an update._

_Nore – Thank you! Snape's parentage should be explained in this chapter. I get that it's weird, but that's what it is. _

_The Lady Valura – You probably thought it was finished because it's so _long_. I'm glad you like Blaise. I like Blaise too. He's one of my favorite people._

_Seal-chan –I hope you got as far as this chapter…_

_The Great Pretender – This is an update! About, uh, three months? After your review, but nonetheless!_

_Ellamalfoy – Still the 40s. Not a "soon" update, but… it's here?_

_Gisse – I hope that's odd in a good way?_

_There may have been others not answered due to technical difficulties. All the same, thank you, and sorry I couldn't get a reply._


	16. seventeen : the lesser of two

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

_November 15, 1996 (Thursday)_

_the lesser of two_

_

* * *

_

**_Note: For those of you who were reading this ages ago and have just started again and sort of for my own use, there's recap and character list at the end of this chapter. I hope it's helpful._**

_**Also, Chapter two was deleted, which makes the chapter list and reviews and everything a little off. But not the story. I've finally decided what I want to do with Chapter two and it'll be posted at some point, but till then… sorry.**_

* * *

It was dark. Snape walked quickly, arms swinging a rapid rhythm. He had to get to the Slytherin house—that first, then Ravenclaw and the Library. The Great Hall would be closed at around this time and, for security reasons, no students would be allowed out of the castle proper. Mostly, they weren't allowed out of their dormitories either, but he thought he'd check the prefects' bathroom and Head facilities in addition to the two houses anyway.

His mother, on the other hand was rounding up Hufflepuff and Gryffindor. She was also going to make a sweep of the infirmary and the kitchen—those Gryffindors did get about, they knew.

By his reckoning, Snape had ten minutes to find the students and get them out of the school and that wasn't enough time. Not nearly enough. He started running, found himself at the entrance to the common room, spat the password without thinking and stormed in. The students were milling about confusedly—they all seemed to be in the common room and everyone was troubled.

"Professor Snape!" one of them exclaimed, eyes bulging in surprise.

He ignored it. "Is this all of you?" he asked harshly.

"Pansy and Crabbe left with some of the others," another student said. "Draco's been gone—nobody knows where Blaise and Millicent and Goyle are—"

"But they're not with Pansy," finished a student he recognized more easily. Daphne Greengrass, was it?

"Aside from them," he barked. "Is this all?"

They looked around, one to another. "Yes, Professor," the first student said. "We all came down when Pansy and them left."

"All right," Snape said, follow me. "All of you, we need to leave the school now—it's about to be attacked."

Wands were grabbed, cloaks thrown on. Snape made sure all were in attendance, doing a mental head count before whirling around and marching up toward Ravenclaw tower. There was something wrong. Something dreadfully wrong—it upset the air of the place, he could almost smell it. But he paid it no mind, tilted his head forward, walked faster.

* * *

Mrs. Snape found Minerva McGonagall easily enough. The woman was at the front of the school, fretting terribly. _We've both grown so old_. "Very," she called. _Too old. For this at least._

McGonagall nearly jumped out of her skin at the name. "Elaina?" she asked, once she'd calmed down.

Elaina nodded. "I'm here to help evacuate the school—Severus is already getting the Slytherins and Ravenclaws out, you're to round up the faculty. I'm headed for Gryffindor and Hufflepuff…"

"Are you here with Him?" McGonagall asked. Elaina didn't ask which "Him" she meant—there was no time to be cute.

"No," Elaina shook her head. "For, more like. Or not really," she stopped, "Because of." She nodded, then and started toward Hufflepuff. Noticed that McGonagall paused before heading off, presumably to somewhere she could contact the rest of the staff. Clear out the kitchens and what-not.

_Maybe we were never the best of friends_, Elaina mused. _But we _were_ friends. Weren't we?_

She kept a brisk pace, her pocket watch knocking against her right knee cap from inside her coat. Severus would want to know later. Everything, of course, and she was well prepared to tell him. After all, the knowledge wouldn't amount to much at this point anyway.

* * *

And Voldemort…

Voldemort had business to take care of.

The Aurors were clustering outside the school and the students would be exiting soon. Though it was still dark, it wasn't long til sunrise. They would be going in just before dawn. They would not be sending up the Dark Mark or charging through the front, no, they were going to _sneak_ in like proper Slytherins. Hogwarts was, after all, riddled with secret passages and Voldemort knew of exactly one that led from the outside in.

The entrance was in the forest—the exit, the Chamber of Secrets. _Slytherin, you've served me well._

"We enter quietly," he instructed. "I will proceed to the Headmaster's office. You will make sure the school is, in fact, empty. Once you are sure of this, you will wait in the Great Hall. Understood?"

"Yes, my Lord," the Death Eaters chorused.

"Good," Voldemort said and tapped an oddly shaped stone. It shivered and produced a light cracking sound along with a few sparks, before sinking into the soil down and forward, producing a stone staircase. The Death Eaters did not comment.

Voldemort went in first.

* * *

"He's going to take the school."

They stood in the entrance hall, the whole lot of them—absolutely every person left in the school aside from Dumbledore.

McGonagall caught Elaina's eye and held it relentlessly. "Isn't he?"

"Probably," Elaina said. "But is that really so important?"

"What do you mean?" McGonagall hissed, "Of course it is!"

Elaina shook her head. "You'll all be alive, won't you?"

* * *

Blaise was well aware that he was leading the small troupe. He had no idea where he was going, of course, but he was well aware that he was in the lead.

Millicent whispered, "Blaise?"

He whispered back, "Yeah?"

"Where exactly are we going?"

He said, "Um."

"Are you open to suggestion, then?"

"Definitely."

"Wha' are you two whisperin' about?" Hagrid thundered, striding forward.

"We didn't know where to go," Millicent stated, flatly. "And frankly, you can't have expected us to all at once—we're really just children, you know. Or young adults, if you prefer, and we _did_ manage to get you out of the school, so I'd _think_ you could give us some time to confer, hm?"

Hagrid narrowed his eyes. "An' how do I know yer not just leading us straight to You-Know-Who?" he asked. "There may no' even be anythin' wrong with the school!"

"But there _is_ something wrong," Harry said. "With Dumbledore, with Hermione being missing, with all of it."

"Yeah," Goyle agreed.

"_I _think we should go to the Zabini house," Millicent suggested.

Blaise's eyes nearly doubled in size. "_My_ house?" he asked. "Have you _not_ met my mother?"

"Would she turn us over to Voldemort?" Harry asked.

"No," Blaise shook his head. "Of course not. You lot'll probably get tea and cookies served on nice silver plates while _I _get a bloody earful about running away from school and Blaise-Zabini-what-did-you-think-you-were-doing and, you know she's Lucius Malfoy's sister, don't you? I mean the house is an old Malfoy winter estate and that doesn't mean she's a Death Eater or that Voldemort's got any way to get into our house, but it _does_ mean that she's bloody ruthless!" he stopped and took a breath. "You have absolutely no idea the octaves she can hit when she's _particularly _incensed, I swear glass breaks somewhere—you should've been there when Lucius came by and tried to convince us that we had to join Voldemort—he must not have been able to hear for _weeks_. Draco and I were on the bloody _roof_ and we could still hear it."

"You're Draco's cousin?" Harry asked.

"Well, yes," Blaise said, catching his breath.

"Ye wan' us to go to a _Malfoy_ house?" Hagrid exclaimed.

"No!" Blaise half-shouted. "God, no. Of course not."

"Zabini," Millicent said commandingly. "What's your father's job in the Ministry?"

"He's in Securities now, since my mother wouldn't abide his continuing to be part of the Muggle Studies department," Blaise turned to Harry. "She called it a joke, you know, I mean she'll say once in a while that they're not _all_ uncouth dullards and that there are _some _good ones mixed in, but honestly."

"_Securities_," Millicent emphasized. "I've seen some of the wards around the place and new ones aside, there are quite a few old ones from back when Amias Malfoy lived there and unless Voldemort himself comes barging through, no one's going to break those."

Blaise nodded in defeat. "Lucius can't even get in unless we let him. Grandpa Malfoy set that one up for Mother when the whole Voldemort thing started."

"Amias Malfoy?" Hagrid asked.

"Yeah," Blaise nodded.

"Who?" Harry asked, feeling a little left out.

"He was a good sort," Hagrid affirmed. "A shinin' light in a bloody pit of a family."

"We've always thought so," Blaise agreed. "Lucius doesn't take after him much. Mother's convinced that Lucius is the reason Amias is no longer with us, but it's yet to be proven," he shrugged. "Suffice to say, after a point they stopped getting Christmas Cards with family photos from us and had to settle for the generic kind you buy at the market that just say 'Happy Christmas, etc'."

Goyle said, "Where are we going?"

Millicent replied, with a sigh. "Blaise's house."

"We'll need to find floo powder," Harry said, adjusting his glasses. "There'll probably be a fireplace in Hogsmeade somewhere."

Hagrid patted his pockets and pulled from one of them a pouch. "Floo powder here," he said, grinning and dangling it from his forefinger.

"Right," Harry said. "To Hogsmeade, then."

Somehow Blaise got the feeling he'd lost the lead there.

* * *

Voldemort was heading up the stairs to the Headmaster's Office. He kept his wand at the ready, knowing he would need it. Dumbledore's pet phoenix was shrieking so loudly Voldemort could hardly think.

And some statement, half remembered from a day when two creatures, slinky and maybe a little scared snuck into the Great Hall to watch the battle between two old men, one good, one evil, and that one said:

"_The wizarding world can't abide two at once._"

_Careful, Tom_.

He opened the door, saw black hair under a menacingly pointed hat. The man behind the desk narrowed his eyes behind spectacles, said, "You're that boy, aren't you?" and smiled grimly.

Voldemort pointed his wand. "_Avada Kedavra._"

A stream of green light flew toward Grindelwald, hissing as it went. Until it hit the air around him and dissolved. Voldemort narrowed his eyes, didn't even bother to ask how as he prepared to dodge the return curse. He thought it though, thought it intensely—"_How?_"

Grindelwald laughed. "Good try, boy, good try," he said, patting the desk in front of him. "But of course a _cur_ couldn't do me any damage, hm?"

Voldemort heard the braggart out patiently. An idea came to him and he waited for Grindelwald to circle the room as Grindelwald always did.

But Grindelwald didn't circle. "I know what you're thinking," he said, wagging his finger at Voldemort. "You're thinking that you're going to wait until I'm in exactly the right spot and then drop something heavy on my head."

Voldemort kept quiet.

"You're not going to do that," Grindelwald informed rather unnecessarily. "You know, while I was gone, I chanced to meet the Great Salazar Slytherin," Grindelwald said, with a sly smile.

"And, since I had a window into the living world I was able to tell him all about the activities of his latest heir—getting beat by an infant and then a gaggle of preteens? Forgetting the healing properties of phoenix tears? Neglecting to take advantage of His Own secret passageway into Hogwarts before today? Dallying with mudbloods?" Grindelwald was practically tsking.

"That's impossible," Voldemort replied.

"Oh, no," Grindelwald said, "You'd be surprised at how many Dark Wizards remain at the half-place. You were never there, of course." The old Dark Wizard eyed Voldemort's wand, sharply. Voldemort didn't lower it and wasn't planning to. "Your ancestor was so displeased, in fact, that he endowed _me_ with the power to do what _you_ could not."

Voldemort thought he was expected to back away, and knew he wasn't going to. If what Grindelwald said was true… Voldemort fought the urge to smirk. The Dead Wizard was going to find quite soon that he hadn't got any power. That he hadn't got anything. From what Voldemort knew of Salazar Slytherin, the man had never given anything away free and if _He'd_ been in the half-place…

"You're a fool," Voldemort said. "I thought you were perfectly fine with mudbloods."

"I've been shown the error in my thinking," Grindelwald glared. "I am not a fool, you'll see." He pointed his wand at Voldemort then.

"I don't get the option to join you?" Voldemort asked—he would've raised an eyebrow if he'd had any.

Grindelwald laughed. "Of course not!" he exclaimed. "Your followers will, though."

"Goodbye," Grindelwald said, jovially. Voldemort put his wand across his chest just as Grindelwald shouted, "_Avada Kedavra!_"

Voldemort recognized the ensuing blast, only the last time, he recalled dimly, he'd been on the opposite end of it.

* * *

Moody stared blankly at the school. Students were pouring out of it in a rather orderly fashion, shepherded by their teachers, and surrounded by a veritable army of house elves. "What is this?" he asked his fellow Aurors. Then, realizing they were ill-equipped to give him a suitable answer, he hurried forward and grabbed Minerva McGonagall.

"What is this?" he asked again. The Transfiguration Professor stared at him a little bit blankly and shook her head a bit.

A woman he only vaguely recognized stepped forward then. She smoothed her coat and smiled at him, pertly. "Voldemort," she said, "Is currently attempting to take the school. Quite probably he is engaged in a battle with the Dark Lord Grindelwald over it and we thought it best not to get the children involved." She pulled an unusually wide eyed first year in front of her and smiled again, sympathetically. "You do understand, don't you?"

"Bollocks!" Moody exclaimed, and prepared to charge into the school with his Aurors.

A bright light exploded from a tower in the castle. "Dumbledore's office," Snape whispered.

And Minerva said, imperiously. "I think at this time it would be best if we thought of the _children_ first." Moody glared and was about to argue when she cut him off with, "You can take the castle back later, if it's so important to you," she lectured. "Better him there so you know where he is then wherever he was before. We know that castle. There are students, I think, who know secret ways in and out and who, I'm sure, will apprise you of this information at the earliest given opportunity. But right now, we need to get these somewhere safe."

Moody, reluctantly nodded a sort of agreement. The Aurors stepped forward. "We'll get them to a Ministry shelter," Moody said, "And move the people of Hogsmeade." He waved a hand and a few Aurors went off to do this. Moody, meanwhile, scanned the crowd. "Where," he asked, finally, "Is Harry Potter?"

* * *

"I can't believe Madame Rosmerta let us use her fireplace this early in the morning," Millicent said in hushed tones as she stood in front of it. "We've never been on good terms."

"Well," Blaise replied, "We are with The Harry Potter."

"Maybe we should've been friends with him and not Draco before?" Goyle wondered out loud.

"Well," Blaise said. "Blood is thicker than water and all that. I guess. Not that Draco and I were ever really friends. Did I ever tell you about that time that he killed my goldfish? It was rather malicious actually, he pulled it out of the water and started beating it to death with his finger."

"Petting it, you mean," Millicent asked somewhat hopefully.

"Oh, I'm sure that's what he was _trying_ to do," Blaise said. "We were about three years old, but everyone knows you can't pet fish without there being dire consequences for the fish."

"Well, Good Luck, Harry," Madame Rosmerta declared, patting the Boy Who Lived on the back. "You be careful. I don't quite trust these three." She took the time to narrow her eyes at Blaise, Goyle, and Millicent. Millicent rolled hers, and held her hand out for the floo powder from Hagrid.

"Let's hurry, then, shall we?" she said.

Hagrid handed her a dash of powder, which she tossed into the fireplace.

"Zabini Estate!" she shouted, and stepped into the fire.

And the sun rose sadly over Hogwarts.

* * *

**End Notes:**

Well, that was short. But oh well. The next chapter is either going to be the continuation of this one or a 40s chapter where the ball happens. I'm not quite sure yet, but if anyone has an opinion they're free to voice it. I think my new policy will be to update this fic on Fridays. That sound good to everyone?

Excellent.

Now for the important part,

_THANK YOU:_

_P-chan – Bingo._

_Blackpants – There's a guide here. It is pretty half-assed, I'll have to admit, but I tried, just because I know this fic hasn't been updated in a year? Or something to that effect. Well, before that last chapter._

_Jaqen – Thanks and see? It did take a week. Well, a little over, but still. Much less than two months or whatever._

_Lrndng—There are a few people who get updates when this is posted (at least my stats page says so) but either they're not reading or not reviewing. The first would be sad, but the latter's all right, I guess. I'm glad you're still reading though. I hope you like this one too._

**_THE REFERENCE-_**

**CHARACTERS (40s):**

_**Slytherins**_

--Seventh Years

Amias Malfoy – Draco Malfoy's grandfather. Kerstan Malfoy's older brother. Member of the Quidditch Team: Chaser

Elaina Goyle – Severus Snape's mother. Engaged to Ardennes Snape.

Ardennes Snape – Severus Snape's father. Engaged to Elaina Goyle.

--Sixth Years

Tom Riddle – a.k.a. Lord Voldemort

Kerstan Malfoy – Lucius Malfoy's uncle. Draco's… great-uncle? Amias Malfoy's younger brother

Eris Daw – A halfbood.

Nadia Rook – A know-it-all. Bent on building a better broomstick.

--Fifth Years

Andrew Crow – Member of the Quidditch Team: Chaser

Jason Isaac – Member of the Quidditch Team: Beater

Ethan Isaac – Member of the Quidditch Team: Beater

Veronica Crabbe – A Crabbe.

--Fourth Years

Cordelia Lee – Member of the Quidditch Team: Chaser

--Third Years

Terrence Goyle – Elaina's cousin. A Goyle.

_**Gryffindors**_

--Seventh Years

Daniel Potter – Harry Potter's grandfather. Elaina's secret boyfriend. Member of the Quidditch Team: Seeker

Minerva McGonagall – Head Girl. Future Transfiguration teacher.

_**Ravenclaws**_

--Sixth Years

Bram Zabini – Blaise Zabini's grandfather.

_**Staff**_

Professor Binns – History of Magic

Professor Dumbledore – Transfiguration

Professor Delduf – Spell Theory

Professor DeLay – Divination

Professor Leif – Herbology

Professor Verity – Charms

Professor Bran – Care of Magical Creatures

Professor Dante – Defense Against the Dark Arts

Professor Bourdillon – Potions

Armando Dippet – Headmaster, possibly delusional

**RECAP:**

-- the Catalyst

**Hermione** stumbles into a Death Eater initiation ceremony during a Hogwarts visit, running into **Draco **as he was trying to sneak out.

They both attempt to escape, but are chased into the inner chamber where **Voldemort** prepares to kill them.

Something as yet unknown throws them back in time, saving them from sure death. The date is November 11th.

-- Meeting the Past

**Hermione **and **Draco** wake up in the chamber beneath Hogsmeade. They argue.

**Draco **leaves in search of a drink and runs into **Kerstan** at the Hogs Head. **Kerstan** mistakes him for **Amias**, so **Draco** claims to be a long lost cousin.

**Hermione **goes to Hogwarts in search of **Dumbledore**. She runs into **Kerstan** and is taken to the current Headmaster, **Armando Dippet.**

They are both assigned to Slytherin and **Hermione **gets a new name—Harmony Rush.

In the present, **Severus Snape** searches for the two missing students (Draco, Hermione).

While looking, he gets captured by the **Death Eaters** and **Voldemort** prepares to kill him for being a traitor.

**Snape's Mother **shows up at the last minute, talks to **Voldemort **and leaves with her son to a protected cabin somewhere.

At the same time, **Albus Dumbledore** hears voices.

Also, **Blaise Zabini **decides it's time to do something about this whole "Death Eater" thing.

And **Minerva McGonagall **stresses out, trying to keep the school together.

-- the Present Day

**Blaise Zabini **and **Millicent Bulstrode **walk around convincing people not to become Death Eaters.

**Harry Potter **tries to figure out what's gone wrong with **Dumbledore** and reassure **Ron**.

**Voldemort **hits the books, knowing that something isn't right with the current Hogwarts Headmaster.

It is revealed that **Dumbledore **is actually **Grindelwald**'s illegitimate son (oops).

**Grindelwald **uses this connection to take over **Dumbledore**'s body.

**McGonagall **receives a letter from **Voldemort **warning of this eventuality and calls the Aurors to Hogwarts as **Voldemort **prepares to storm the castle (but quiet like).

**Blaise, Millicent, Harry, Goyle **and **Hagrid **flee the school.

**Pansy Parkinson **and **Crabbe **left previously to join the Death Eaters.

-- Etcetera

**Draco **joins the Quidditch team as a Seeker.

**Hermione** meanwhile searches for a way to get home and attempts to avoid the attentions of **Tom Riddle.**

At some point, **Riddle** gets attacked by a pink badger (possibly rabid).

**Draco **notices how the older Slytherins all seem to have rather suspicious pocket watches, but never gets the chance or remembers to comment on them.

**Hermione **notices that **Riddle **seems uncommonly concerned with house elf rights.

Preparations for the seasonal ball start. **Draco **gets ordered to take **Eris**. **Hermione** and **Tom **opt not to go at all. But separately.


	17. eighteen : dawn breaking

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

_November 15, 1996 (Thursday)_

_dawn breaking  
_

* * *

Darius Zabini sat reading yesterday's news and fretting terribly. Two students had disappeared from Hogwarts, one of them his nephew. Darius thought that wasn't very good, but knew his son was smart enough not to get mixed up in any of that. He sipped his tea absently, didn't notice at all when Mililcent Bulstrode tumbled out of his fireplace. Not even when Harry Potter stepped through, or Gregory Goyle for that matter. Until he heard a rather loud crash and someone shouting "Bloody great giant, get the hell off me!" 

Darius lowered the paper slowly. He recognized that voice… "Blaise?" he asked, tentatively.

His son was shoving someone back—Hagrid, Darius saw—and dusting himself off. "Um, Hello Dad?"

And Darius was out of his seat in half a second—"What do you think you're doing here, your mother'll be up any minute now, get back to school!" and the man started shoving his son back to the fireplace. "Where'd you come from? The common room? Here's floo powder—"

"Dad," Blaise said, dodging his father's efforts to cram him into the fireplace. "It's not safe at the school!"

"It's not safe _here_," Darius said. "I love your mother, I do, but you don't understand, she's been drinking this new tea that's supposed to soothe her vocal cords and—" Darius Zabini stopped short, just having noticed something. He pointed, confusedly. "Are you… Harry Potter?"

Harry nodded uncertainly.

"And Millicent Bulstrode," Darius pointed again. "Gregory Goyle. Do your parents know you're here?"

"No," Millicent replied. "And really, we'd prefer it if they didn't for the time being if that's all right with you."

"Blaise," Darius asked. "What's going on?"

"Well—"

"No, never mind, don't tell me," Darius shook his head. "I'm going to go into the kitchen and all of you," he said, making a circular motion with his index finger. "_Never_ saw me."

"Sure, Dad," Blaise said. "We'll see you later."

Darius nodded, and sulked toward the kitchen, newspaper firmly in hand.

"We should find out if anything happened at the school," Harry said.

"Well," Blaise pointed to a desk. "There's today's Prophet."

"Then what was you father reading?" Harry asked, eyeing the paper suspiciously.

"He always reads them the morning after," Blaise said. "He figures that if it's bad news and he finds out a day late and notices that he's still alive and well, things must not be so very bad and worries much less."

Goyle said, "Huh?"

"Don't ask me," Blaise said, "He's just my father."

Harry walked over to the desk and flipped open the paper so he could read the headline.

**DARK LORD TAKES HOGWARTS – AND SETS STUDENTS FREE?**

"What?" Harry whispered, eyebrows furrowing. "This doesn't make sense."

Millicent appeared at his shoulder and scanned the article. "Breaking News, Grindelwald appeared in Hogwarts, Voldemort showed up, students exited the building led by Severus Snape, missing since Sunday and believed to have been captured by Lord Voldemort. Sources say Minerva McGonagall got a warning from Voldemort, telling her to leave the school. Evacuation followed by explosion from Headmaster's Office. I don't understand." Millicent shook her head. "Why would he evacuate the school?"

"Grindelwald," Hagrid repeated darkly. "Tha's bad news, that is," he said.

"Maybe Voldemort doesn't like him," Goyle said, shrugging.

"That's probably it," Blaise agreed. "He wants Grindelwald out of the picture and look how this reads—suppose Grindelwald were to get out of Hogwarts and try to take over somehow, where would Voldemort be then? He doesn't want the opposition. He's made himself look like the better choice by getting the students out of the school. It's ridiculous—no one could be worse than him and we all know that."

Hagrid seemed skeptical. "Grindelwald used to hunt down 'alf-breeds," he said. "Anything 'was 'alf of somethin' he'd try to kill it." He looked away as though remembering something harsh, then shook his head. "Best to hope they ge' rid o' each other."

"Maybe it's something worse than that," Millicent said, frowning. "How did Grindelwald come back, if he really did? Through Dumbledore?"

"That would explain why he was so… off," Harry agreed lowering his head. "I should've noticed sooner."

"Bollocks," Blaise said, "What are you supposed to be, bloody psychic or something now?"

Harry glared.

Millicent said, "What magic _does _that?"

The four students and one teacher looked back and forth without managing any answers.

"What if," Millicent posited, "Voldemort evacuated the school—"

"Because he thought Grindelwald could make them into sacrifices," Blaise finished. "Well, that would be in-character. Selfish snake, he is."

"We need to get in touch with them," Harry said, "With McGonagall."

* * *

The light dissipated, and Voldemort saw clearly that Grindelwald was still standing—another feat too astounding to be believed.

The Dark Lord of Old huffed, hands on his knees. "How…" he asked, between breaths.

"You're not the only one with little tricks," Voldemort hissed.

Grindelwald laughed, and stood up straight, wheezing as he did so. "This little encounter seems quite pointless now, doesn't it?" he chortled. "Obviously, neither of us is ready to die just yet."

Voldemort pointed his wand.

"I cede the school," Grindelwald raised both hands. "Just remember," he said, "Every stone is against you."

And, that said, he vanished.

* * *

**End Notes:**

Well, that was short. But oh well. The next chapter is either going to be the continuation of this one or a 40s chapter where the ball happens. I'm not quite sure yet, but if anyone has an opinion they're free to voice it. I think my new policy will be to update this fic on Fridays. That sound good to everyone?

Excellent.

Thank Yous would go here, but I think this site doesn't allow them any more. sigh


	18. nineteen: the hogs head

**CHAPTER NINETEEN**

_the hogs head_

_November 19, 1942_

* * *

The Slytherins were sneaking into Hogsmeade. Hermione knew this because Nadia shook her shoulder at around eleven in the morning and asked, "Why aren't you ready yet? Aren't you coming?" 

To which Hermione, later to be mortified at the fact that she'd slept in so late, replied, "Whatyoumeancomingwhere?"

"Hogsmeade," Eris said simply, frowning as she tried to brush her hair over Nagini. The snake hissed its irritation.

Hermione sat up, lazily rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. "There's no Hogsmeade trip... we haven't got the permission forms..."

"Oh, stuff the forms," Eris waved her hand. "My father's dead and my mother's insane, who'd sign them?"

"We're sneaking," Nadia admitted. "There's a tunnel. Well, I'm sure there are several, but there's one we know of."

"It's very secret," Eris said, nodding bubbily. She gave up on the brush and tossed it on her bed. "Also against school rules, but we've all got shopping to do. I mean my robes are fine, but there MUST be something I can find for my hair..." she trailed off, staring into the mirror distractedly.

Hermione fought the urge to roll her eyes.

"I need potions supplies," Nadia said, "I'm sure there's something you want?"

Hermione thought briefly and the only thing that came to mind was that supposed time-traveling bartender. "I don't know," she shrugged. "Where's Elaina?"

"Already in the common room," Eris took one last glare at the mirror before trotting toward the door. "I think I'll go out there myself--it's so crowded in here!"

"You should get ready," Nadia directed once Eris'd gone. "I'll wait for you, if you want."

And Hermione, still groggy, said "Thanks."

* * *

Draco stretched on the couch and half listened to the conversation around him. None of it was really interesting. Mostly chat about yesterday's Quidditch game (which he was still receiving congratulatory pats on the back for) and assignments. He yawned, his stomach growled. He smiled to himself and wondered what he wanted to eat for breakfast and what they'd have to buy and eat in Hogsmeade this decade. Distantly he wondered at the fact that he'd never felt this satisfied on any morning of his life. He'd beat Daniel Potter at Quidditch and that was almost, _almost_ as good as beating Harry himself. 

And Draco could've gone on congratulating himself for hours, but a piercing wail suddenly broke through his reverie.

"Why can't I go too?!"

It was Veronica Crabbe, wailing at Elaina who'd just emerged from the girls' dormitories.

"You're too young," Elaina said. Then she thought about it further and cut off Veronica's screechy:

"But you went when you were just--"

with a well timed: "And you're too loud!"

"Chin up, Ronny," Kerstan said, sweeping over. "I'll buy you what ever you want. Why don't you make a list?"

Veronica batted her eyes at Kerstan and quickly grabbed for a piece of parchement and a quill. "Why didn't _you_ ask me to the ball?" she asked, poutily.

"I absolutely _had_ to take Georgina otherwise the poor thing would've burst into tears in the middle of the hall," Kerstan lied smoothly.

Veronica "humph"ed and tossed her hair back. "I can't believe they didn't _organize_ Hogsmeade trip the weekend before the ball!"

"How do you know there won't be one _next_ weekend?" Draco asked almost immediately regretting the question.

Veronica snapped a girlish glare in his direction. _Fifteen-year-olds_, he thought. "They'd have passed out the _forms_ already," she whined.

Kerstan mimicked Veronica behind her back and Draco stifled a chuckle at the sight of his cousin's exaggerations. Veronica whirled around, list in hand, cloying smile plastered on her face. "Here you go," she said cheerily, dropping it into Kerstan's surprised and outstretched hand.

With a final "Hmph" at Draco, she flipped her hair and made her way back to the girls' dormitories.

"She drives me _insane_," Elaina said after the younger Slytherin'd fully vanished.

Amias shrugged. "Hopefully she'll grow to be a little less..."

"Insufferable?" Tom finished.

"Well," Amias said. "She's young. I'd rather give her the benefit of the doubt."

"I'd rather not," Draco quipped lazily.

"D'you think she'll turn out just like Eris?" Terrence Goyle asked slyly, hoping to get a rise out of the room.

All he received were blank stares.

"Well," Terrence attempted. "You know, all... hissy and... annoying. Right, Tom?"

After a beat, Tom said. "Yes. She is rather terrible, isn't she?"

No one said anything to that and soon, the object of discussion bustled out of the girls' dormitory. "Nagini!" they could hear her scream before they saw fall out. "I can't see my feet! Oh OOF!"

"And by the sound of it she's stolen my snake _again_," Tom drawled.

"I haven't stolen anything of yours!" Eris exclaimed, picking herself up off the floor. "Take him back if you want him!"

"We've tried that before," Tom replied. "I couldn't get him off, remember? You've trained him not to let go."

Eris sputtered a little, before deciding to ignore the conversation and wander into more friendly territory. She made her way over to Ardennes, who was reading quietly. As she sat down, Tom yelled over to her "Is Harmony coming?"

"Find out for yourself," Eris shot back, thumbing her nose up at him. He sneered at that, and went to go sit at the opposite side of the room.

Draco leaned back again. At least it was going to be an interesting day.

* * *

Hermione followed Nadia blearily into a common room that seemed to be under great stress. 

In the red corner, there was Eris, pouting over a sheet of parchment, Ardennes at her side whispering and pointing. "Oh," she said, periodically. "Oh, I see."

In the blue corner, there was Tom, poring over a rather large book, distractedly casting glances at the entrance to the girls' dormitory every now and again.

"Oh," he said, seeing them emerge. "You're here. I suppose we should leave now?"

"Unless you want to sit here all day," Eris piped up. "Which, of course, would be fine with me."

Much to Hermione's surprise, Nagini slithered off of Eris's neck and wrapped itself around Tom's arm.

"So you're finally giving him back?" Tom asked, raising an eyebrow. "What, did you train him to kill me in my sleep."

"_Yes_," Eris said dramatically, "That's exactly what I did. So why don't you go take a nap now and I'll see if all my hard work has paid off?"

Tom sneered and was about to say something, when Amias spoke up.

"Let's just go now," he said, tossing Eris a meaningful look. "We all need things, and, really, we haven't got all day."

"Of course," Tom nodded, dusting his robes. "Lead the way," he said, gesturing toward the door.

Amias nodded uncertainly and walked out of the common room.

"Well," Nadia said, turning to Hermione and clutching her bag. "Come on."

* * *

Draco hated the Forbidden Forest. No, scratch that: Draco _**hated**_ the Forbidden Forest with a passion so intense it could only have been borne from fear. He hated the trees, he hated the wildlife, he hated every single speck of dirt that got caught in his shoes, _especially_ the little rocks. He hated mud, he hated grass, he hated moss, he _hated _it. 

Unfortunately, that was where the Slytherin path to Hogsmeade was. "There's a tree," Kerstan'd explained. "And it's got this tunnel underneath-- well, you'll see."

Draco'd been plodding through the woods for a good ten minutes and he had yet to see. The prospect of having to walk through a _tunnel_ filled him with even more disgust. He swore he felt a mosquito land on his arm and batted at it with vigor. That was another thing he hated about the forest-- the _bugs_.

A little ahead, Amias stopped, which meant the entire group stopped. Draco didn't see any kind of special tree anywhere. They all looked the same to him.

Amias knelt in front of a rotting stump and tapped a mushroom. Draco had to raise a fine eyebrow at that. Then both of them jumped into his forehead as the ground started to rumble. "What's that?" he asked, thanking Merlin that his voice didn't squeak. Oh, how he hated the forest.

"It's the tunnel opening," Elaina said gently. "I know it's a little bit odd..."

"How did you even _find_ this?" Draco asked. Watching as the stump flipped open like the lid on a tin can to reveal stairs descending downward.

Elaina looked as though she was about to say something, before she stopped and touched her pocket watch delicately. She shrugged.

Draco gave her an odd look, then watched as Amias descended into the tunnel followed by Tom, then Kerstan, Ardennes, Nadia, Hermione. "Let's go," Elaina said, nodding toward the tunnel.

"Wonderful," Draco muttered, stepping in after her.

The group had already performed _Lumos_ charms on their wands almost as a one, and Draco lit his almost by instinct. The tunnel was dry and lined with perfectly maintained stone. "This is..." he started, trailing off as he looked around.

"Weird?" Elaina finished. "I know."

"Where does it go?" Draco asked, peering ahead.

"Into this... sort of underground chamber in a Hogsmeade alley," Elaina said with a shrug. "It's kind of bizarre, really."

Draco nearly froze at that-- _underground chamber in Hogsmeade_?

That was entirely too familiar.

* * *

Hermione marvaled at the tunnel as they walked through it. It was... fascinating. "Who _built_ this?" she wondered out loud. 

Tom Riddle dipped his head toward hers unexpectedly and whispered. "Some people think it was the Founders, themselves," he said. She could practically see that smart smile of his. "Salazar Slytherin in specific."

"Some people say it was the Ghost of Christmas Past," Eris moaned from behind them. "OooooOOOooooo." She waved her light around ridiculously.

Hermione narrowed her eyes and practically bit through her lip to keep from exploding with some invective about stupid, immature, ignorant...

"Wow, that was really grown up of you, Err," Tom said as though he was reading her mind.

Eris probably made a face at that, but Hermione didn't see it. Amias had opened a door in the front and Hermione was transfixed by the room.

_This is the chamber..._ she thought almost frantically. She tried to look back at Draco to share the magic of recognition, but Kerstan's head was in the way. _Just as well_, she thought.

They walked through the chamber and the tunnel, then up the stairs. Hermione got the eeriest sense of _de ja vu_. This was where the Death Eaters blocked them off. That was where she and Draco fell. A chill ran through her when she crossed the spot they almost died.

Then they were out in the sunlight, and the group was dispersing. "Where did you have to go?" Nadia asked, suddenly at Hermione's side.

"I can walk you," Tom offered. "I just need to pick up a few things-- I can do that afterward?"

"No thank you," Hermione said. "I think I'm just going to wander around."

Nadia shrugged and Tom nodded. Both of them left. Hermione tightened her scarf around her neck and headed off in the direction of the Hogs Head. Much to her vexation, Eris skipped up beside her. "You want to talk to the Willoughby?" she asked.

"Maybe I just want a drink," Hermione replied curtly.

Eris shook her head. "I have to tell you--"

And Hermione whirled around on her. "I don't want to hear it!" she exclaimed. "All you do is spout nonsense and insults and--"

"I have to introduce you to him," Eris replied calmly. "He won't tell you about what you want to know if I don't."

"What I want to know?" Hermione asked.

"Your special project," Eris answered. "The one you're doing for Dippet? Special entrance into the Codsworth Academy?"

"Where'd you hear that," Hermione asked, voice going accusatory. Her eyebrows furrowed in genuine confusion. It was an interesting lie...

"Draco," Eris replied simply. "You need to know about time travel, don't you?"

Hermione nodded stiffly.

"All right," Eris said, with a smug smile. "Then walk with me."

Biting her tongue against any insult, Hermione followed. They walked in uneasy silence for a while, until Eris finally said: "I'd stay away from Tom if I were you."

"Why?" Hermione asked, feeling catty for some reason. "Jealous?"

Eris laughed flippantly. "No," she said, "But he's..." she stopped midsentence and frowned. "Well, he's Tom," she finished unsatisfactorily.

"Thanks for the advice," Hermione remarked, voice heavy with sarcasm.

"Oh," Eris shrugged, opening the door to the Hogs Head. "I knew you wouldn't listen."

_I _do_ stay away from him_, Hermione thought viciously as she entered the suspect eatery.

It was warm inside-- almost comfortable. Eris made her way up to the bar as soon as she stepped in. "Willoughby," she whispered, leaning over the counter.

"Yes, Dear?" The bartender, an elderly man with bleach white hair and a crooked nose leaned near her, a mischievous smile on his face. "Skipping out on school again?"

"It's the weekend!" Eris exclaimed. "And it's for a good cause."

"What cause might that be?" Willoughby asked. "Better hair product."

"No!" Eris said, touching her hair self-conciously. "The idea that students should not live in fear of their surroundings," she proclaimed slyly.

Willoughby laughed. And Hermione felt a little uncomfortable. "Wonderfully said!" the man exclaimed. "Have a butterbeer."

Eris beamed. "Thank you," she said.

Willoughby turned to pour her the drink and Hermione took the opportunity to ask: "I thought you were going to introduce me."

"In a second," Eris replied.

Willoughby set the mug on the counter and Eris picked it up and downed it quickly. The bartender nearly clapped at the feat.

"Willoughby," Eris half-whined. "This is a friend of mine? Harmony," she said.

For the first time since they entered the bar, Willoughby seemed to notice Hermione. "Ah," he said, extending his hand. "Nice to meet you."

Hermione shook the man's hand. It was rough as sandpaper with a firm grip. She smiled uneasily.

"Hermione's doing a project," Eris whispered conspiratorially. "On _time travel_."

Willoughby's eyes narrowed at nothing in particular. "Ah," he said. "One of _those _friends."

Eris shook her head. "No, no, no," she said. "Harmony's different. She needs help. Badly."

There seemed to be a kind of code in all of this that Hermione couldn't detect. She ran it through her head a few times and still came up with nothing.

"You should make friends," she smiled, cheerily. "Bye!"

With that she made an abrupt exit, nearly running out of the bar.

Willoughby turned a curious eye toward Hermione. "So," he said. "You've got a problem with time?"

* * *

Draco walked in the opposite direction from Hermione and found, to his disappointment, that his stomach was leading him toward the Three Broomsticks. He sighed. A good Hogs Head bacon breakfast was out of the question if Granger was there-- but it was the only thing he was really craving. 

He stood in front of the Three Broomsticks' large window, reading the menu over and over and over in an attempt to find something he felt like eating. He thought about the potatoes for a second, than decided they were too starchy for his current mood. He was in the middle of contemplating a waffle, when Eris appeared at his side.

"What do you want?" he asked, drably.

"Follow me for a second," she said. "Quick!"

Draco glared, but followed her anyway. There were some questions he had about certain things to do with these old Slytherins and she seemed like the least likely of the bunch to actually hurt him for asking.

Then she grabbed him by the collar and dragged him into an alley. Suddenly, he wasn't so sure she was harmless. He was stooped over walking, half-protesting. when she pulled him close to her and said, eyes wide and frantic,

"I dreamed it last night. I've been trying to ever since you got here," she shook her hair. "The girl, I saw her..." Eris's eyes glazed. "_Hermione_," she seemed to be quoting from somewhere. "But you I didn't see and I wanted to, but..."

Draco was genuinely frightened. This girl was crazy and "Wait," he said, quickly. "Did you say Hermione?"

Eris nodded slowly. She looked up. "She's old and smiling, surrounded by loved ones-- don't tell her. I could be lying to you." Eris shook her head. "This isn't about her, though, it's about _you_. He kills you."

"_What_?" Draco asked. Definitely interested now that someone'd mentioned his _demise_.

"In your time," Eris said. "_V--_" she stopped as though she were being choked by something invisible and clutched the pocket watch dangling around her neck. She bit her tongue and shut her eyes. "Don't go back," she said. "That's all I can say."

And Draco, in a moment of excellent deductive reasoning guessed. "It's those watches, right?" he raised an eyebrow. "There's something going on with them?"

Eris's neck went stiff and she backed away. "Stop," she said. "I _can't_ say and if he finds out I..." her eyes went round. "You can't tell anyone about this. Just don't go back."

"I wasn't planning to," Draco tossed off nonchalantly.

"Your friend is trying to find a way," Eris warned. "If you give her enough time, she will and if she goes, you'll go with her."

"Hermione's not my friend," Draco hissed, harshly.

"Because she's a mudblood?" Eris asked, her voice drenched with irony.

Draco kept his silence and walked out of the alley. "Thanks for the warning," he said, before stepping into day light.

And Eris shook her head.

It wasn't really a warning at all.

* * *

**Notes: **Holy crap did that take a long time to write. The next chapter should be up next week Friday-- it's practically written in my head already and I've been waiting for a VERY long time to get to it. It's the ball, during which Hermione and Tom have a long talk and bond. Sort of. Reviews are always appreciated, but it's been so long since I've updated this that I can't sort them out to see who's just reviewed since the last specific THANK YOU. But I'll make sure to acknowledge everyone who reviews this? If you've been here since the beginning, thanks for sticking with it. If you haven't... you lucked out and missed TWO LONG YEARS of slow updates. They should be quicker now, though. I've got through the toughest leg of the journey... (I hope) 


	19. twenty: the winter ball

**CHAPTER TWENTY**

_the winter ball_

December 3, 1942

* * *

The week after the Hogsmeade visit passed by rather uneventfully for both Hermione and Draco. They attended classes, studied. Draco won another Quidditch game--against Hufflepuff this time and by catching the snitch before the Chasers'd even got a chance to score. Eris and Tom had their bickering. Nadia was so focused on her studies that she achieved near zen-like focus. Eris joked that she was probably levitating a few centimeters off the ground, but no one really understood what was funny about levitation. Hermione might've stifled a giggle or two if she hadn't been too busy glaring.

She was doing her best to forget everything Willoughby Rush told her. About how they'd stumbled into a sort of tunnel he'd made years ago. About how there was no way for them to go back except to wait.

"And how long?" she'd asked, expecting maybe a month at worst.

The bartender shrugged. "I came from 1911 and landed in 1938," he said. "I'm still waiting."

Four years. At least.

She'd walked out of that bar morose. Her last hope evaporated, there was nothing to do but wait. Try to make a life, maybe keep an eye out, but... She was entirely against thinking her situation was hopeless, but she couldn't very well help how she _felt_.

She wandered through Hogwarts like a ghost-- no, rather like a depressed teenager. The ghosts tended to be lively, especially now that they had a ball to prepare for. Excitement practically ricocheted through the halls, though none of it managed to hit Hermione. She had no date and didn't plan on going.

Even Nadia'd found someone, asked at the last minute by Ambrose Zabini. As far as Hermione knew, the Slytherin common room would be empty for the night. Except of course, for first and second years. Hermione didn't expect any intelligent conversation (not that _that_ wasn't a rarity in Slytherin).

And Draco hadn't so much as looked at her in days, which was beside the point.

She sighed and mumbled the password to Slytherin's brick wall and it opened in front of her. She drifted through the common room and settled at a desk. There was a History essay to write. It wasn't due for another week, but she didn't have anything better to do.

---

Draco fixed his tie and eyed his reflection. Kerstan definitely had taste. His robes were impeccable, with elegant lining and simple, yet exquisite embroidery that made the outfit stand out without being garish or gaudy. Yes, Kerstan's dress robes were all intricate works of art that shimmered and held the attention of anyone looking at them.

Unfortunately, they were all two sizes too small for Draco.

The poor boy frowned into the mirror, trying to straighten and dishevel his robes by turn. They were flat black, with a few frills around the collar, and dropped down to his shoes. There was some lace around the cuffs that Draco found so embarrassing he'd folded the ends of the sleeves back and pinned them. He mussed up his hair, then flattened it.

The robes were dreadful. Boring. There was nothing he could do about them. If he flattened his hair he looked like a funeral attendee. If he mussed it, he looked like some crazy person that'd stumbled out of an alley. There was just no way to fix _anything_.

"How do you like them?" Amias asked, smiling brightly as he adjusted his own cuffs. They were white with gold cufflinks. The rest of the robe was identical to Draco's and for a second the young man pictured the both of them carrying a coffin up the stairs to the common room.

"They're perfect," Draco lied. He plastered a grin on his face and stopped mucking around with them.

Amias's lip quirked and Draco got the feeling his grandfather could see right through him. "I'm sorry if they're a little drab. In all honesty, I only bought those for Father's funeral."

Draco's jaw dropped. Amias threw his hands up defensively, "Oh, I didn't wear those though--I thought they were a bit too fancy for the occasion."

"Oh," Draco said, straightening the robes again. "When did he die?"

"Over the summer," Kerstan replied, edging Draco away from the mirror so he could admire himself. "Amias actually owns the entire estate..." Kerstan stopped and sort of winced as though he'd said something stupid.

"I heard he and Father never got along," Draco supplied, remembering finally that he had a role to play.

"Uncle Dominic wasn't even invited to the funeral," Amias shrugged. "No one knew where he was."

"I figured," Draco cocked his head. Centered his tie again. "No hard feelings."

"Well," Amias said. "We probably shouldn't keep the girls waiting."

"I have to walk all the way to Ravenclaw," Kerstan moaned, throwing up his hands. "How dreadful."

"Your fault for taking Georgina," Amias replied. "You could've asked Nadia."

"She hates me," Kerstan said. "I can _feel_ it. Besides, she's boring."

Draco was beginning to think his Great Uncle was pretty much an ass. "I think she's fine," he shrugged. "Better than Eris at least."

"Oh, she's got her problems," Kerstan said. "She's a mudblood... she can be a pain... but she's usually good fun."

Draco's ears perked up. "Mudblood?" he asked. "I thought we didn't say that."

Amias flinched a little. "We don't really," he said, glaring at Kerstan.

"Oh of course not out of Slytherin and not in front of Tom or Eris-- they get annoyed," Kerstan replied, smoothly ignoring Amias's glare. "But I don't see why it should be a problem here. We're all Malfoys, aren't we?"

Amias blinked hard. "There you go again," he said. Draco's eyes widened-- that tone of voice was much harsher than Amias's usual. "You're just like father."

Kerstan rolled his eyes. "And you're just like Uncle Dominic," he said. "I mean, _really_," he appealed to Draco.

Draco didn't know what to do. He was unsure of the hierarchy. Amias was the oldest, but Kerstan made more sense to him. He kept quiet and shrugged. "Dad's a bit batty," was all he offered.

Amias shook his head. "It can be different," he said. "It _should_ be different."

And Kerstan sniffed. "If _that's_ what you think then why'd you even j..." He stopped suddenly. His hand moved to his chest.

_Pocket watches_, Draco's eyes narrowed as he recognized the motion.

"I've got to get to Ravenclaw," Kerstan excused himself. He rushed out of the room, perfect robes flowing behind him.

"Brotherly spat," Amias explained after he'd gone. "Don't mind it."

Draco flashed an understanding smile. Those pocket watches were really beginning to get on his nerves and he saw an opportunity to figure something out. "What did he mean by 'why'd you even join'?" Draco asked, struggling to keep his tone as innocuous as possible.

"Join?" Amias furrowed his eyebrows. "I didn't hear him say that."

"Oh," Draco said. _Damn_. "I must have misheard."

Amias forced a small smile and headed for the door. "I'm sure Elaina's waiting," he said.

Then, after walking a few steps: "I never know what Kerstan means any more."

-----

Hermione tried her best not to feel miserable as the girl's came floating out of their dormitory, dressed to the nines and elegantly made up. Elaina wore scarlet, Eris emerald, and Nadia seemed to be wearing dress robes the color of burnished silver. Standing next to each other they looked like a stunning Christmas decoration.

Elaina's hair curled into perfect ringlets that were swept back into a bun that had a sort of messy elegance. A few curls were let loose to frame her face. Eris's hair was, for once, not oily and only mildly tangled. It fell straight and layered, with a network of thin braids connecting through it so that she almost looked like a sort of medieval peasant girl. Hermione's eyes narrowed slightly-- with her hair like that, Eris looked like she could've been Nadia's sister.

Especially since, of the three of them, Nadia seemed to have made the most significant transformation-- her hair was free of its usual braids and curled wistfully down her back. Her glasses were gone and so was the severe, focused look that they usually afforded her. Her face was still thin and still so close to being beautiful without quite making it. Her complexion was still a touch pallid, but some strategically placed blush and silvery glitter added life to it. The dress made her look like a moon princess.

And for a few seconds, Hermione envied her. She remembered making such a transformation back in fourth year, but it was unlikely she'd ever get to do so again.

The Gryffindor ran a hand through her tangled hair and viciously suppressed a sigh. She smiled. "You all look lovely," she said.

Nadia scowled. "I suppose," she looked toward her sleeves--long and sparkling, they fell over her wrists delicately. "Although it all does seem rather impractical."

"Oh," Eris whined. "Sometimes I wonder how you didn't get into Ravenclaw."

"Focus," Nadia replied, her voice crisp. "I have to head down to the Great Hall-- I'm meeting Ambrose there."

"He's not coming to get you?" Elaina asked.

Nadia raised an eyebrow at the other girl. "I specifically told him not to," she said. "I'd hate for us to get caught in a crowd going down." In her no-nonsense way, Nadia was already to the wall.

"We'll see you soon!" Eris called after her, as she stepped out.

Nadia barely responded.

Elaina sighed, shaking her head at her friend. "Sometimes I worry about her, really." She plopped down in a seat near Hermione. "What are you going to be doing all night?" she asked, eyeing the girl's parchment sympathetically. "Not homework."

"Oh," Eris said, flapping her hand mockingly. "But homework is Harmony's absolute favorite pasttime."

Hermione ignored her. "Might as well not waste time."

Eris swept over then and studied Hermione's parchment for a few seconds before the more conscientious girl covered it and glared. "Oh dear," Eris said. "Just like Nadia. You know you can still go to the ball," she tilted her head. "Dateless... or you can take my date," she shrugged. "He doesn't seem too happy about going with me."

"I'll be fine here," Hermione replied through gritted teeth. "I can't stand galas and such." A lie, but one that made Eris back off.

"Oh well," she sighed.

Elaina seemed to ignore the slight altercation all together. "Oh the boys do take such a ridiculously long time to get ready."

"Kerstan's probably hogging the mirror again," Eris said, planting herself next to Elaina.

"It's time to start betting," Elaina turned to Hermione. "A galleon says they make it out before Veronica."

"They didn't last year," Eris said, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh, but they're a little faster on average," Elaina said. She closed an eye as though drawing up figures. "I'd say it's 10:1 they come out first; 30:2 she comes out first."

Eris blanched. "Are those good or bad odds?" she asked. "For me. If I take the bet."

"It'd sort of defeat the point if I told you," Elaina tilted her head sympathetically. "What about you?" she asked, rounding on Hermione. "Got a galleon to lose?"

Hermione shook her head. "I don't really gamble," she said.

"Drat," Elaina replied. "I guess I'll have to find some other way to pay Minnie back."

"Pay her back for what?" Hermione asked, curious. Did Professor McGonagall gamble in her youth?

"Very sews very well," Eris said. "She makes beautiful handbags."

"This one, actually," Elaina continued, holding up her crimson purse. "Beautiful isn't it?"

Hermione inspected the velvet-- the stitched design. A golden tree dripped leaves and apples. A few stray leaves fluttered to the bottom of the purse, where they collected before massing on the branches again. Hermion gasped. "Gorgeous."

"So much talent," Eris said, tracing the thread. "So little interest in it."

"_Common _condition," Elaina said, with some meaning in her tone.

At that moment, Kerstan came speedwalking through the common room.

"What's your hurry?" Eris asked. "Can't stop for a little friendly conversation?"

Hermione looked up and saw Kerstan cock a smile. "Not really," he said. "Got to get to Ravenclaw to pick up Darlene..."

"Georgina," Elaina corrected, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh," Kerstan said, throwing up his hands. "They're all the same aren't they?"

"Actually," Hermione said, bristling. "No."

Kerstan "hmph"d and made his way out of the common room. "I'll see you all in the Great Hall," he said, before stepping through the wall.

Elaina sighed. "If the rest of the boys don't get out here before Veronica does and we're stuck waiting _with_ her for her date, I'm going to kill them. I really am."

-----

When Draco and Amias stepped into the common room, their ears were met with a rather high-pitched whine.

"And I can't _believe_ Kerstan didn't stop to say 'you look lovely' to me before he left!"

Veronica was sitting on a rather large arm chair. Elaina and Eris were firing glares at the two Malfoys. "If looks could kill," Amias mumbled in Draco's direction. "They'd be arranging our funeral just about now." He smiled broadly at the girls.

"I see you're ready," he said, going over to Elaina and extending his arm rather gallantly.

"Oh," she hissed as she wound her arm through his. "Don't for _one second_ think that saves you."

Draco stood a bit hesitantly in front of Eris. "I suppose we should go," he said.

She sighed and stood up. "Yes, yes, _finally_." He didn't extend his arm for her and he got the feeling she wouldn't have taken it anyway.

"Bye Ronnie," Elaina sang out with a broad (and utterly fake) smile. "See you downstairs."

"I'm sure Darius will be by soon," Eris said. "Quite soon. In fact, I'm sure he's waiting for you in the hallway right this very second."

The foursome exited the common room, stepping through the wall to find.

"Darius!" Amias exclaimed, shooting Eris a sideways look before sweeping his arm toward the open wall. "Now's your chance to get through."

The bewildered Hufflepuff took the hint and practically ran into the common room.

Once the wall closed behind the boy, Amias turned to Eris. "And _how_ did you know he'd be there?"

"Elementary my dear Amias," Eris replied with a slick grin. "Darius is a rather punctual fellow, but he's also rather daft-- a condition shared by his lovely date. I'd expect the two of them to forget he'd need the _password_ to get into the common room."

"Bugger it all," Elaina muttered. "If _that's_ what you thought then why didn't you get her out of there sooner."

Eris blanched. "Oh," she said a little vacantly. "I hadn't thought of that."

Elaina huffed and scowled before shaking her head. "Dear," she said. "What _are _we going to do with you?"

Eris smiled and offered her arm to the older girl. "Why, take me to the ball, of course!"

Elaina laughed and linked her free arm to Eris, who then offered _her _free arm to Draco. The younger Malfoy took it with a sigh and Amias grinned, jovially. "To the ball!" he proclaimed jokingly.

"Hear hear!" Elaina smiled.

And Draco felt himself buoyed by the convival spirit, ridiculous as it was. He grinned at the pure theatricality of it and walked jauntily through the hall with his house mates.

They ran into Tom somewhere on their way upstairs to the Great Hall and Amias called out "Care to join us?" as they skipped by him.

"Insane," the future Dark Lord mumbled, a smile spreading across his face. "The lot of you--utterly mad."

"Why thank you," Eris said, tossing a cheeky grin his way as they passed him.

Draco held his tongue. After all, he wanted as little to do with Voldemort--young or old--as humanly possible.

-----

Hermione watched Veronica snap at her date for being late, before gleefully bustling out of the common room with him in tow. Then she was alone but for some somber first, second, and third years, who were already making their way to bed.

She sighed and went over her History assignment once more. Two feet on the popularity of alchemic practices in the seventeenth century and how that. Binns hadn't specified what they needed to _say_ about the popularity of alchemic practices, simply that they needed to produce two feet of writing about the subject.

The Gryffindor ran a hand through her hair and picked up her quill. It was a lazy assignment. Practically worthless as alchemy's former popularity had absolutely nothing to do with modern times, unless, of course one counted that whole incident revolving around the Philosopher's Stone.

She put quill to parchment and scratched out a few half-hearted lines. _He probably doesn't even read these_, she thought, remembering how their essays on the Goblin Revolt had come back with no remarks and perfect scores all around. Except for Eris's, whose essay was only half the required length and had therefore received half as many points as everyone else's. Hermione figured _she_ was lazier than most-- that essay'd ridiculously easy as well.

Dipping her quill in ink, she paused to think about the next paragraph for a second, when a voice-- startlingly male and startlingly close remarked, "Well, that's a load of bollocks."

She jumped-- she couldn't help it-- and spun around. "Tom?!"

He backed away, hands raised in surrender. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

"You're reading my essay!" she shouted, spluttering. "You... you were going to cheat!"

"No!" he said, "No," and pulled a book and roll of parchment out of his bag. "I've just finished mine, see? Back from the library."

"What did you... what are you..." Hermione tried to say. She wanted him to go away, but she couldn't quite seem to find the proper combination of words.

"It's a rubbish assignment," Tom said. "What you're doing is exactly what Binns wants, I didn't mean anything by it, really."

Hermione felt offended. "And what did you write?" she asked, bristling. She moved her elbow to cover her own, molested parchment.

"Pretty much the same thing," Tom admitted, scratching the back of his head. "Rather tragic isn't it?"

"I suppose," Hermione replied, sticking her nose in the air rather airily, hoping he'd take the hint and bugger off.

Instead he sat down.

"Have you finished the Charms questions yet?" he asked.

"Yes..." Hermione replied tone guarded.

"Brilliant," Tom pulled another book and roll of parchment from his bag. "It's ridiculous," he said, "But for the life of me I couldn't remember whether a _simple_ disillusionment charm was managed with a strident _leftward_ flick or one to the right," he admitted, looking a little sheepish.

"A slight motion," the reply was automatic. Hermione was white with surprise. "To the left."

"Of course," Tom said, "I quite forgot. Concealing Charms are always to the left, aren't they?"

Hermione nodded, dumbstruck.

"A little biased, isn't it?" Tom asked. "Left is always a bad word as well. _Sinistra, gauche_," he shrugged.

"Though _left_ doesn't have very many negative connotations," Hermione quipped, turning back to her essay.

Tom smiled. "That's right, of course." He turned to his work and finished off his Charms questions.

Hermione ignored him, scribbling her History essay rather decidedly.

Tom tilted his head toward her. "You are rather brilliant, you know."

Hermione flushed at the compliment, but refused to look up. "Not really," she said. "I've heard _you're_ quite the prodigy."

"Isn't it tiresome?" Tom sighed heavily. "People thinking you're so bloody smart and then it's on with the name calling, which seems well-intentioned but is actually quite mean. Brainiac, workaholic..."

"Know-it-all," Hermione continued before chiding herself for actually participating in the conversation. But he was right.

"_Genius_," Tom practically hissed. "I think I hate that one the most. It's always so _ironic_."

Hermione nodded. Oh, she didn't want to talk to him, but he was absolutely right. Absolutely.

He transifgured a cup of cocoa out of and inkwell absently, and handed it to her.

"So," he said, as she took the cup just a little reluctantly. "Why aren't _you_ at the ball?"

-----

The Great Hall was decorated in Green and Red, Gold and Silver.

"It's like a contest between Gryffindor and Slytherin pride," Elaina muttered. "How much would you like to bet some sorry little fourth years are going around counting all the decorations trying to find a bias one way or the other."

Draco grinned at the thought, but felt a little oddly about it all the same. That was something _he _would've done as a fourth year.

Eris seemed to pick up on his discomfort. "Oh, you only say that because once upon a time _we_ were the sorry fourth years," she said, grinning.

"Bah," Elaina dismissed with a covered smile. "I may have been a little daft as a fourth year, but I was never _sorry_."

Eris laughed and Amias shook his head. "Shall we head over to the banquet table, Milady?" he asked Elaina with a gallant and unaffected bow.

"Of course," she said, lowering her eyes.

She unlooped her arm from Eris's. "We'll run into you later, won't we?"

Draco was about to protest, but Eris said. "Of course," and directed her silently protesting date toward one of the round tables for sitting.

"I'm a bit hungry," Draco said, eyeing the table. "Are you sure we shouldn't go and join them?"

"Quite," Eris replied. "One of the Gryffindors set up some sort of exploding charm in the potato salad-- I'm sure it'll go off any second."

"How do you know that?" Draco asked, arching his spine to look at the banquet table.

Eris looked a little surprised and a little offended. "I helped him make it," she answered as though this was quite obvious. "Knowing the Gryffies, though, they've set it in every dish they possibly could. In a few seconds it'll be absolute anarchy."

Draco's eyes widened. He was hooked to a madwoman.

"This area should be safe," Eris said, hauling him into a doorway. There was a beautiful outdoor area set up with gables and twinkling lights. It was even snowing, but Draco wasn't allowed to take any of this in. The madwoman whirled him around to face the dining table and then moved to stand a little behind him. She checked her watch and counted...

"Ten... nine..."

Draco saw Elaina and Amias reach the banquet table. Kerstan and Georgina were already there, spooning some punch into mugs. "And you didn't even warn them?" he asked.

"This will be funnier," Eris replied in what he sensed was a slightly evil voice. "Funnier by far... five... four..."

Draco watched as his grandfather moved closer to the potato salad and winced.

"Two... one..."

The banquet table _erupted. _Food flew everywhere, spattered _everything_. But Eris was right, Draco was far enough away and was not in the blast radius. Dumbledore seemed to have got it especially bad--gravy dripped down his beard and a turkey seemed to have got itself stuck on his head. Amias and Elaina had, luckily, ducked in time and were only dusting lettuce and tomatoes off their backs. Kerstan had a full face of potatoes--now mashed and Georgina was hollering about punch all over her robes.

There were a few good seconds of surprised silence at the whole thing, before the Great Hall was consumed with two very contradictory emotions: mirth and anger. Eris was giggling to herself behind Draco, who, despite not wanting to admit it, was laughing a good lot himself. The Gryffindor's seemed to have miscalculated something and were splattered almost worse than the Slytherins.

Somehow or other, a food fight started, and Eris yanked him out the door. "Don't want to have any of _that_ now," she said, dodging a flying carrot.

They escaped into the snow laughing as they ran for a pretty candlelit sitting area where they stopped, doubled over and grinning.

Then their laughter subsided and they stood, rather quietly. And for a few seconds and for reasons he couldn't quite figure, Draco felt content watching the way snow settled on her eyelashes. Drops of white clung to her mascara, paling her face and highlighting the warm brown of her eyes.

"Nicer out here, isn't it?" she asked.

Draco remembered she was an annoying, confusing mudblood and that he didn't like her then. He turned away, shoving his hands in his pockets. And she plopped into the snow, green dress robes fanning around her so that she looked for all the world like a dying Juniper tree. Keen ears heard a sigh from her direction followed by the metallic clink of something opening-- like a locket or a pocket watch.

Draco turned lazily at the noise, saw a flash of silver white light emanating from Eris's palm. _Pocket watch._ Without thinking, he dove for it.

Startled, she threw herself back. "No!" Her hand flew close to her as though it'd been wounded.

But she hadn't pulled away far enough. Draco uncurled his index finger and managed to touch one wisp of light with its very tip.

The last thing he saw before that belly-sucking falling sensation it him was her face-- wide, open, and very near tears.

-----

Tom's head snapped toward the wall so suddenly Hermione nearly spilt her cocoa.

"Is anything the matter?" she asked, guarding her drink somewhat confusedly.

Tom shook his head and smiled in a way that made Hermione's insides flutter. She chided herself for that, thinking htat his was the most dangerous smile she'd ever encountered.

"Just thought I heard something," he said. And before she could respond, he cocked his head. "Have you ever heard of Englewood's Deconstructive Study on Pensieves? It's about how the personality of a pensieve's owner affects the way others see their memories. Sometimes in color, in black and white, in sepia." Tom threw in a thoughtful pause. "You know, a mind twisted enough can actually skew the viewing."

-----

Draco blinked and found himself somewhere unfamiliar-- a dirty muggle street. There was a little girl standing next to him holding her mother's hand, who seemed to be the focus of the scene. _Eris?_ he wondered as he watched her shift with childish impatience.

From what he could gather, they were waiting to cross the street. Draco's lip curled as he watched the ugly hunks of metal stutter by in front of him. Muggle transportation was so dirty, so distasteful.

"Mum," the little girl said, voice brimming with barely contained excitement. "D'you think they'll have lilies?"

"I'm sure," her mother replied, kneeling. "Lilies and daisies and pansies and peonies."

"Gardenias?" the girl asked. "Carnations?"

The mother nodded, grinning. She tapped her daughter on the nose with her index finger. "All of those and more," she said.

A commotion started up the street. Draco turned to see what it was and saw a boy in a dirty white hat tearing down the sidewalk, arms laden with newspapers. "War!" he screamed in thick cockney. "We're at war!"

Startled pedestrians bumped, turned, and mumbled out of the boy's way. Until his message sank in.

Then they began to work themselves into something of a frenzy. Draco felt a thin curl of fear twist through him, but somehow, oddly he didn't feel it was his own. The paper boy stopped at the crosswalk where Eris and her mother were standing, threw down his papers and started shouting out the price.

And curious people surged forward.

A thick set man, rushing to get a newspaper plowed right through Eris and her mother, driving them apart and creating a gap that was soon filled by other people. Draco lost sight of the little girl and only managed to find her by following her tiny, terrified, and wholly unnattractive squawking.

Once he had an eye on her, Draco found it quite easy to navigate through the pressing crowd. He ducked arms outstretched, maneuvered around fists full of changed swinging, and tactfully avoided stepping on any feet. _Muggles_, he thought _Go figure._

He stopped to watch them for a bit and smirk at how inferior they were, forgetting to keep track of that mudblood entirely.

Then a thread of terror strung its way up his spine and he whirled to confront the source. His gaze landed on Eris, who'd apparently been knocked down. Her eyes were getting wider as her panic level increased and Draco found that, strangely, he was getting more and more terrified _with_ her.

He could barely breathe, was shaking-quavering with fear more intense than anything he'd ever felt when, suddenly, as if by miracle, someone reached down and pulled her up.

It was a boy. Dark blue eyes, black hair. The recognition frightened Draco just a bit.

The boy shepherded Eris to a calm alcove, removed from the surge. "Are you all right?" he asked her.

She shook her head dumbly. Draco felt waves of gratitude-- _her_ gratitude sweeping through him. Until she looked up and got what was apparently her first good look at her savior's face.

"You!" she exclaimed in an astounded whisper. "I'm not afraid of you!"

"Why should you be?" the boy asked her, brows knitting.

He wasn't the only confused one. Draco very nearly scratched his head. Before remembering. _She's a seer... or something._

"Don't... don't you know?" Eris asked. She kept her posture guarded, but Draco noticed the way she still leaned toward him. Just slightly.

And the boy looked absolutely flabbergasted. Draco relished his expression-- after all, it wasn't often one got to see a pint-sized Voldemort look taken aback.

"No," the boy said. "Do I know you?"

Eris shook her head. "I don't think so," she said. "Not yet."

The boy looked as though he wanted to say something, but he lost his chance when Eris's mother came speeding toward them, high-heels pounding the sidewalk.

"Eris!" she squealed. "Where did you get to?"

Eris threw herself into her mother's skirt. "Right here," she said, clutching the pleated material.

Eris's mother looked past her daughter to the little boy standing a little a part, looking embarrassed. "Who's your friend?"

Draco felt another twinge of fear from Eris.

"Uh," the boy said. "I'm... Tom."

"You're far too young to be out on your own!" Eris's mother wailed. "Where are your parents?"

"I'm an orphan," Tom replied, keeping his voice flat in what seemed to Draco like a sort of practiced recitation. "I haven't any."

"Oh!" Eris's mother covered her mouth. "You must come home to lunch with us! We're having roast beef sandwiches."

Tom lit up at the prospect. Draco could feel Eris's mood darken. "But... the flower shop!" she complained. "And Hadley's after, you promised!"

"In this uproar?" Eris's mother asked, motioning toward the sidewalk. "Don't be ridiculous." With that, the woman grabbed her sullen daughter's arm with her right hand and took firm hold of Tom with her left. "Now then," she said. "Off to the house."

Draco started to follow them, feeling the sick whirl of Eris's apprehension.

But the world suddenly and inexplicably darkened. He felt that invasive terror taking hold of him again and spun around, trying to find its owner.

There was a source of light ahead of him-- a Lumos charm-- and he could see a face silhouetted in its halo. Tom Riddle, older now, sneering.

"If I were you," the young Dark Lord said. "I wouldn't open my eyes."

A ragged gasp drew Draco's attention to Eris sitting on the cold stone floor. Her knees were tucked up under her chin, eyes shut frantically, because hovering just in front of her was a giant snake. It bobbed slowly, keeping its narrow eyes trained on her.

Then the light went out entirely and Draco could only hear a quiet hissing, some soft sobbing. His pulse raced with her fear.

And again, just before he thought he couldn't take it any longer, the fear went away. Draco got the distinct feeling he was being sucked out of something.

"Draco!" Eris shouted. "Oh, open your eyes-- God, are you all right? Draco!"

Draco opened his eyes. He saw Eris crouched in front of him, eyes wide and reddish, hair going in twenty different directions.

"Merlin," he found himself saying. "He's a bloody lunatic."

The poor Malfoy felt a bit woozy and wavered a little.

"And you... fed him roast beef... and everything..."

-----

Hermione'd just got finished listening to Tom's summary of Englewood's Study. "Why haven't I ever heard of this?" she asked, clasping her hands together--cocoa all but forgotten.

"It's something they teach in Theory," Tom replied.

"That class you say they were cancelling?" Hermione was aghast. She'd been sure this "Theory" class was something absolutely useless. If it wasn't, why would they cancel it?

Tom just nodded, morosely. That pretty face of his twisting in some sort of existential pain. "Don't remind me," he complained, sounding sick. "It's the best thing about this school. It really is."

"Then why cancel it?" Hermione asked, shaking her head.

"Because of its association with Salazar Slytherin, who is -- as of last year's disastrous happenings -- persona non grata."

_Last year's disastrous happenings_. The phrase startled Hermione. It rang in her ears and she felt her stomach go blank. The realization smacked her like a bludger to the face. This was _Voldemort_ she was sitting around chatting with. Vol-de-mort. Not just any well informed young Hogwarts student.

She nearly cut off the conversation entirely, planning on retreating to her dormitory and hitting herself on the head with a bit of wood a few times to knock some sense in, when a second realization hit her:

She was talking to _Voldemort_. Voldemort at the very beginning of his rise to power, when he was merely just sort of floating on the first step of the power ladder. Hermione Granger was in the perfect position to find out information that might prove helpful-- even vital to the Order.

Of course that would be dangerous, treacherous, and it probably wasn't the best idea. The best idea was of course to avoid him. But, like the chickenpox, Tom Riddle was nigh avoidable.

So why not? Why not find out all she could from him? He was, after all, on eof the most brilliant students in Hogwarts's entire, illustrious history.

This thought fresh in her mind, Hermione boldly took up her cocoa. "I don't understand," she said, cupping the mug and leaning forward. "How can a _class_ be so closely related to one of the Founders?"

"That's a bit complicated," Tom replied. "It's such a long explanation is really almost a lecture in and of itself and I don't quite think I'm equal to it tonight." He half-smiled, sheepishly. "If you're really interested, you can ask me again tomorrow." He shrugged in what Hermione thought was a helpful way. Then he was quiet in what Hermione thought was a somewhat rueful way. "Or you can ask Eris, if you'd like the more animated version."

"Eris?" Hermione repeated. Her eyebrows shot up and her cocoa was in immediate danger once again. "But she's..."

"Manipulative?" Tom finished, with not a little venom. "Evil incarnate?"

"What?" Hermione wasn't at all disinclined to agree with him, but she _was_ surprised at the sudden vehemence.

"You want to know why Theory's good as gone; she's the reason." Tom shook his head as he elaborated. "She's extremely destructive. Just picks a thing or a person or an institution and sees whether or not she can break it down just for _fun_. Stacks people up like bloody dominoes and sends them toppling, she does. She's a bloody terror."

Hermione's eyes went wide at the fiercely warning tone in his voice. "I thought..." she started, realizing distantly that her cocoa was growing cold. "I thought Theory was being cancelled because of what happened with Chamber?"

Tom clamped his mouth shut and glanced around almost _nervously_. Hermione was confused. Completely and utterly. There was no call for this sort of behavior. None! Especially not from the boy who would be Voldemort.

Hermione continued with her questions, badgering him in his silence. "And wasn't it a half-giant that opened the Chamber?" She forged on, relentless, and mumbled a mental apology to Hagrid for the slander she was about to engage in. "Hagrid or something, right? A Gryffindor? Weren't you the one that caught him?"

Tom sat looking a bit tortured and Hermione couldn't help but pat herself on the back. She'd caught him in a lie and--

"Hagrid," Tom said. Hermione thought he'd gone a bit green. "He was a nice simple little Gryffie. Sad what happened to him. Wasn't his fault at all."

_Of course it wasn't_, Hermione thought triumphantly. _It was _yours

"She coaxed him into doing it," Tom continued, wholly unaware of Hermione's thought processes. "She lied to him. Just a Chamber, yeah? One of the castle's more exotic secrets." Tom shook his head there. "Poor lout hadn't a clue as to what was _inside_ the bloody chamber. But of course once it was done Hell broke loose. They wanted to close the school and I _couldn't_ go back to--" Tom stopped short, just noticing Hermione's rapt gaze.

"That whole thing was just bad news all around," he summed up with a hapless smile. "And Eris's fault, I assure you."

"That's impossible!" Hermione insisted. She had to insist something. She was practically starting to believe him. "If she's really the cause of it, why hasn't she been expelled."

Tom shrugged helplessly. "No proof," he offered. "Simple as that. Besides no one thinks she's capable--but then no one really knows her true colors, I suppose."

-----

"That's _not_ a normal pensieve," Draco remarked placidly. He was rather calm considering the situation. Really serene, he thought, and pretty well proud of himself for it.

Eris blinked at him and shook her head. "Of course it's not," she said.

Draco nodded a little at that. _Mmhmm, _he thought. _Of course._ "And that was the Chamber of Secrets he locked you in there, yeah?" Draco asked, still amazingly calm.

He appeared to be unnerving Eris. Her eyes darted. "You shouldn't talk about that, it's still a very sensitive subject, you know..." She touched the pocket watch again.

"Ah, yes," Draco nodded. "Sensitive. Right."

They stood for a while in the snow.

"He's not a lunatic," Eris told him almost apologetically.

"Oh, yes, yes, of course not," Draco kept nodding-- wouldn't stop. To Eris, he looked like one of those bobbly-headed toys with the frighteningly large faces. Her father had one once. He'd tap it and tap it and the thing's head would go round and round-- he thought it was knee-slapping good fun, but Eris thought it was rather terrifying. Although she was rather a coward, she had to admit. "That would be too easy," Draco said. "I mean you know lunatics are all scatterbrained and loopy-like and Tom's not any of that is he."

"No," Eris replied carefully. She was quite worried about the strange Slytherin. Really--she was on the verge of getting as far away from him as she possibly could.

"I'll bet," Draco went on smiling in a way that was almost frighteningly beatific. "He knows I've just seen what I've seen."

"Probably," Eris nodded. She clasped the watch tightly.

"And he's a right dangerous one, isn't he?" Draco went on. Still nodding and nodding and nodding eerily away.

"I can't say," Eris said, gathering her skirts. He was obviously about to pass out and then she'd run. Someone would find him eventually and hall him back indoors, she was sure of it. She'd just hide away in the kitchen or something...

"Of course you can't," Draco said. "You've got that watch. Mmmhmm, mmmhmmm."

Eris was about ready to bolt. She was backing away slowly...

"And he kills me then, right? You're a seer. You told me." Draco's expression was starting to look a bit strained.

Eris took two more steps away from him. "I'm not a seer," she said. "I see murder. I never tell people how they're going to die. I lie a lot," she kept sneaking further and further away. "My father was a pretty fair Seer in his day. A good one. Did special jobs for the Ministry and all. Very respectable."

"And you're going to be murdered," Draco continued.

"Oh very certainly," Eris nodded.

"By Voldemort."

"Don't know that name," Eris shook her head. Her eyes said she was lying though.

"Right," Draco nodded. "Pocket watch."

"Don't know what you're talking about," Eris shrugged.

There was a long silence. Eris turned somewhat discreetly.

"I'm not going to go insane or explode or anything," Draco said finally.

"Oh?" Eris half turned at that.

Draco shook his head. "No," he said. "No, I'm quite resigned."

"Quite," Eris said, obviously not believing him for a second.

"Of course," Draco admitted. "Like a right bloody genius I've run straight into exactly what I was running away from. And really, you know, with circumstances like that..."

Eris nodded. "I understand perfectly."

* * *

Notes:

- This was actually a lot harder to write than I thought it would be... mainly because the ball chapter is like... a lynchpin, keystone, turning point, essential piece of foundation, ALL AT ONCE. In other words-- my nightmare.

- Also my internet's been going crazy (Sicilian company... bleh) and I made a trip to Massachussets, where the only thing available was dial-up. Plus I've been... reading Commentarius (which you should read) and watching random crap on youtube. Mostly... cracked out Phoenix Wright videos, because I'm suffering Phoenix withdrawal.

- I'm the sort of lazy person that barely (if that) manages to respond to emails from her best friends, so if I neglect to reply to your review it's not because I'm not thankful or I don't like you. It just takes me a while. I'm trying to get to all of my recent and returning reviewers, but it takes me a long time, because I'm a loser. So that's happening.

- On that note, thanks to: Nads, Silverstorm, Myno(one fan), noisee, jjp91, Summer, JellyBellys, Ketsurai (esp. for pointing out exactly where the mistake was--it's now fixed), Nikki, Right or Ryn, Maddiefan, Gueniviere, Blackpants, ydole, bluelioness, and ESPECIALLY Flaignhan

- AND, as always, Inner Dementia, who, well, just kicks ass. (PS: If you haven't read her SA fic Lost in the Fog, what are you waiting for?)


	20. twenty one: aftershocks

**CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE**

_aftershock (interlude)_

December 4, 1942

* * *

Hermione threw off her comforter and sat bolt upright. Her face was pale, hair tangled, and it was... she had no idea what time it was, but she knew it was late. _Rather_ late and she couldn't sleep. Everytime she closed her eyes she ended up tossing one way, then turning back, then waking up distressed and blinking. She was sure her eyes were shot through with red lines and that somewhere in the dormitory Nadia was lying awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking _"_When in the bloody hell is that Rush girl going to stop making so much noise", but she couldn't help it. Ever since earlier-- ever since her talk with Tom Riddle she'd been wondering. 

Yes, _wondering_ about ridiculously counterproductive things. Like could people be born evil? Really evil. Irredeemably evil. And, in fact, when you got down to it was there really _anyone_ irredeemable?

She glared angrily at her curtains and resisted the urge to pound her own skull in. Of _course_ there were people who were beyond help. Voldemort, for instance, being barely human could definitely, _definitely_ not be turned to the "light side" as it were and Tom Riddle, well, he _was_ Voldemort in a way so...

And that was where the trouble came from. That little, niggling "in a way". She tried to get rid of it desperately, transforming it in her mind to a "sort of" and a "kind of" and a "well he _will_ be", yet somehow no ameliorating phrase seemed to lessen that troublesome meaning.

Tom Riddle wasn't Voldemort _yet_.

The Gryffindor tried running a hand through her hair, but was foiled by a mass of tangles and forced to cross her arms instead. She tried reciting the laundry list of Voldemort's crimes just to remind herself how absolutely despicable he was, but ended up running into that same annoying "in a way". Because, she wondered, could you really judge a person in the here and now for things they were going to do in the future?

Or maybe more importantly: Could you stop a person in the here and now for doing the things you were judging them for in the future?

She flopped back down against her bed. Either way, any way, she was just confusing herself.

So Hermione took a deep breath, pulled her covers back up, and closed her eyes. Tom Riddle, whether he could be held responsible for Voldemort's deeds or not, had already committed a few crimes himself. He'd opened the Chamber of Secrets, got Myrtle killed, framed Hagrid, made that diary-- and the path to the "dark side" was a rather slippery slope. At least that's what her cousin had told her. Something about "fear" leading to something and what not-- Hermione had never been interested in science fiction movies and couldn't remember, but she _could_ remember Crystal's ridiculous angst over the fact that the hero couldn't _possibly_ kill the villain, because that would lead him to the "dark side", which, Crystal said, was a "slippery, _slippery_ slope".

In that way, Hermione was able to rid herself of that bothersome "in a way". She excised it neatly. Tom was already responsible for enough as it was and he'd got himself on that slippery, slippery slope, and so...

And so what if he _hadn't _got himself started.

The thought crept up out of nowhere and pounced suddenly, forcing Hermione's eyes open. She fought the urge to growl at how traitorous her mind seemed to be, before realizing that it wasn't an idea that'd just come upon her at once-- it was something that'd formed slowly, from the moment she'd met him.

After all, Tom Riddle seemed like such a little boy. Incredibly brilliant, but in some ways... could he have been naive? Hermione almost didn't dare think it. But the way he'd talked about Hagrid being tricked into opening the chamber, it'd almost sounded like he was simply replacing names in that explanation.

Of course, that was impossible, because that would've meant that Eris would have to have... Which was _impossible_, of course, because... because well Eris was...

Sneaky. She stole belladonna, she lied, she kept his familiar hostage and...

"What am I thinking?" Hermione whispered, putting her hands on her face and dragging them down toward her chin. "Ugh."

Observation was the key in any case. The only way to find out the truth of the matter was to watch the both of them. Although even _then_ the question of whether or not Tom Riddle's soul was actually salvageable would still be left unanswered. But if it could be-- Hermione didn't even dare let herself hope yet. The number of people that wouldn't have to die or go insane or suffer made her want it to be true so badly that--

She worried. Tossed one way, turned back, and worried some more. She'd have to wait til the morning and... observe.

* * *

Draco knew that sneaking into the library at three-thirty in the morning was dawdling and that dawdling, really was just delaying the inevitable, but since that was what he'd been spending all his time in the past doing, he didn't feel very bad about it. 

Eris crouched a few feet away from him, lit wand resting on a shelf while she paged through some novel or other. Draco sighed and leaned against the shelf behind him. He wasn't exactly in a reading mood, though they'd been in the library for a good three and a half hours. Since the ball ended, that was. He'd kept his mind a blank for a while; just let himself drift off. That was better than actually considering his impending doom, which would, of course have been a waste of time.

"Epicurean, elliptical, ecumenical, expository," Eris seemed to be whispering to herself. Draco looked her way and raised an eyebrow. "Do you know the word I'm looking for?" she asked, squinting. "E-e-e-e-e-e," she frowned.

"What does it mean?" Draco yawned. "Gourmet? Ovular? I don't know what the third one meant, I'm sorry."

"It's to do with unity between different branches of the Christian Church or something," Eris replied with a distracted frown.

"The what?" Draco asked. He couldn't help himself from glaring a bit.

"The..." Eris started to explain before she noticed his expression. "Never mind. It's a muggle thing," she said. "I'd assume it's beneath your consideration."

Draco adjusted his sleeves, wary of the fact that she might be mocking him. After a few seconds, her face still bore a distracted expression and she kept squinting and blinking as though grasping at straws in her mind. "What does the word mean?" Draco asked. "You didn't answer before."

That seemed to at least startle her into paying attention to him. "Uh... letters," she fumbled. "Correspondence... something associated with correspondence? Can be used to describe a novel composed of letters?"

"Aren't all novels composed of letters?" Draco asked dryly. He flicked a piece of fuzz off his collar and looked down for just a second to catch the annoyed look on Eris's face.

"Funny, Malfoy," she said, shutting the book and replacing it on the shelf. "You know I'd almost say--"

"Epistolary," Draco interrupted, pushing away from the shelf. "That's it isn't it?"

Eris, who was in the process of picking another book froze with her fingertips poised at the spine of a large black tome. She looked up at Draco and pulled her hand back. "Yes, that's it," she said. "Epistolary novel-- that's what I wanted to say."

"Why would I want to hear about an epistolary novel?" Draco sneered, turning abruptly away from her.

"Internal monologue," Eris said. "That's all."

Draco saw the light source moving and figured she was picking up her wand. He glanced back at her to make sure and, sure enough, she was straightening out her dress robes. "Are you ready to go back to Slytherin, then?" she asked stepping forward.

"You should put out the light," he said, not bothering to answer her question. "We'll get caught in the halls if you keep your wand like that."

"I'm afraid of the dark," Eris said in a rather matter of fact voice.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Then you stay here and start walking a half hour after I've gone," he said and started walking forward.

Eris caught him mid-step and pulled him back by his left sleeve. "Please don't," she was pleading with him, near tears almost. "I'm afraid of being alone."

"Bloody hell," Draco growled. "What _aren't_ you afraid of!"

"I could have gone back with Elaina, Amias, and Nadia-- I could even have gone back with Veronica," Eris said, neatly sidestepping his insult. "But I stayed behind with you because I knew you were afraid of Tom--"

"You stayed behind with me because _you're_ afraid of Tom!" Draco whispered harshly--it was all he could do to keep himself from shouting.

Eris shook her head and tightened her grip on his sleeve. "You're right. You are, but _please_."

And for some reason Draco recalled one of her memories. The one where she was sitting in the Chamber of Secrets with a basilisk hovering over her and he remembered how he'd felt everything she felt and how bloody terrified he'd been. He looked at her face then, and realized she would be practically just as terrified if he left her alone.

"You're..." he grappled for the right word. Pathetic. Impossible. Useless. He couldn't quite seem to settle on one. After all, he was something of a coward himself-- but not _so_ much. He settled on "Positively annoying". And enjoyed the few seconds where she hung her head and looked crestfallen, before he continued with, "and I swear, if we get caught..."

That perked her up. "We won't," she said, smiling a bit irrationally now, he thought. "O ye of little faith."

Draco narrowed his eyes at that. He hated not knowing what things meant. Before he could express his irritation, she continued:

"All Death Eaters in this time are experts on unorthodox cloaking spells."

"Why didn't you just say that before?" Draco asked, gritting his teeth. Oh, was she getting on his nerves.

Her face then was so pitiful it almost sawed through his irritation. "You made me panic," she shrugged. "I forgot."

_Bloody wonderful, _Draco thought a bit darkly. _I'm going to face You-Know-Who and _this_ is my accomplice?_

Just then, Draco had the rather strange task of trying to keep himself from thinking that Granger had been much more helpful...

* * *

THANKS to: Gueneviere, Flaignhan, Ketsurui, maddiefan, Youko, Emriel, JellyBellys, and Inner Dementia. Detailed thanks'll be in the forum when I properly wake up. Either that or when TLAT is updated. Yikes. 


	21. twenty two: one four six

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

_one four six_

December 4, 1942 (Sunday)

* * *

"Like as waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes hasten to their end."

Draco was in a bad mood. Or, really, he was in an extremely bad mood. It was shit enough that he'd had to go through something like this once before, but again? So soon? After having just escaped not a month before? Stupid. Really stupid. Fate was cruel-- really, better that he'd have gotten the Dark Mark in that chamber and mudblood Granger killed. At least then he wouldn't have to deal with trying to fly a bloody slow _Comet_.

"What are you babbling about?" he snapped. Stalling still. Slytherin's brick wall loomed in front of him and for some reason he couldn't bring himself to even _breathe_ the password.

Eris fussed with her hair. "It's easier to quote when you're nervous than it is to say something true or original," she said, tying locks into knots, letting them slip away, tying them again. "Let's you be mindless with remembering."

"There's no chance he's still up," Draco said. "It's four in the morning. No one's up at four in the morning."

Eris turned to him an eyebrow arched. "Of course, because the universe loves you _so_ much, Draco Malfoy."

He glared at her. "Knew I should've left you in the library."

"I'm sorry," she said.

Draco crossed his arms and leaned against one of the long corridor walls. The cold stone chilled his shoulder through his dress robes and he felt very much like pouting, so he did. "This is all your fault anyway," he nodded at Eris. "You and that bloody pensieve."

"I didn't tell you to look at it," she countered, narrowing her eyes at him. "I didn't even _want_ you to and now-- now there are probably things you know and I'm sure you're not an Occlumens in the _least_ and he'll make you wear one and just... get whatever out of you he wants."

Draco paled. "You mean information about the future?"

"If that's where you're really from," Eris sighed. She set her back against the opposite wall. "I mean, really, no one fell for the Durmstrang thing. Well maybe Terrence and Veronica. Probably Kerstan, but no one important."

"Because we haven't got accents?" Draco asked wryly.

"That. Other things," Eris shook her head. "Does it really matter?"

Draco closed his eyes for a second. "But you know," he said. "About me and Hermione-- you called her Hermione."

"And you want to know why Tom doesn't know and I do?" Eris asked. When Draco nodded, she shook her head. "I know just enough... about something just enough like Occlumency to alter some of the memories that go into this," she held up her pocket watch. "He knows the memories are fake because there's no real feeling attached to them, but he doesn't know what they've replaced and that's good enough."

"Why don't you just not use the pensieve?" Draco asked. He thought it was quite obvious. If Tom Riddle didn't know what his followers were doing without pulling their memories out of pensieves, then all Draco would have to do was simply...

"You can't not use it," Eris said, shattering his last shard of hope. "You'll understand."

Draco bit the inside of his lip just slightly. "Teach me then. How to do what you do?"

Eris shook her head. "Can't really be taught. I tried telling Ardennes and Amias, but no luck with either and in any case it'd take more than five minutes," she looked Draco in the eye and shrugged. "You haven't got much more than that."

"So _show _me!" Draco reached for the pocket watch she was still holding up and Eris tried to disappear into the wall.

"No!" she said, turning away.

Draco, frustrated, advanced slowly. "Why not? If it'll help..."

"They're my memories!" she sounded almost desperate then. "How would you like it if someone went mucking around in your memories? Could feel all the things you felt... it's _private_."

Just a few inches away from her, Draco halted. "It could save lives, you know? Mine for instance, maybe."

"And make mine miserable?" Eris drew back, tried to slide away, but Draco thrust forward an arm to stop her. His other arm raised and reaching for the pocket watch. Eris's eyes widened. "Spell's got you too, hasn't it?" she asked, pulling her hand back the few inches she could.

Draco's hand closed over hers, thumb sliding over the watch's catch. "If it's anything like that," he said, glaring as he felt himself diving into the misty grey. "It's your fault."

Eris, looking away, didn't say a word.

* * *

Hermione woke up at around five o' clock in the morning and couldn't seem to get herself back to sleep. No matter what shape she battered her pillow into or how many blankets she pulled over her head, she couldn't seem to get her eyes closed and make them _stay_ that way. Annoyed, she rolled out of bed. _May as well get breakfast, _she thought as she grabbed a set of clothes out of her trunk and plodded toward the bathroom.

When she stepped out a half hour later after showering and brushing her teeth, everyone else was still asleep. Quietly, she made her way through the dormitory and skipped up the steps. She didn't expect anyone to be in the common room either-- after all, the ball had kept the entire House up late and it _was_ a weekend to boot.

But when she thought about it, she knew she should've expected _him_ to be there. Quite casually reading near the fire in fact. Still, the sight startled her. _Oh, if only he could just _go _away..._

"Harmony," he said smiling lightly. "You're up early."

"I could say the same to you," Hermione replied. She hadn't wanted to start her observations just yet-- her encounter with him... well, their conversation to de-glorify it, seemed too fresh. After spending the better part of the night tossing and turning over him, _seeing_ him so soon just felt awkward. She'd crossed her arms in an attempt to fortify herself and looked at him in a way that, she hoped, was quite casual.

"Yes," he said, shrugging. "Trouble sleeping I'm afraid."

_You too?_ "That's too bad," Hermione nodded at him, thinking that would end the conversation nicely, and continued on toward the wall.

"Are you going to breakfast?" he asked. His tone wasn't any louder than it had been and he'd barely moved, but something about the way he said it made her turn to face him again.

"Well, yes," she said. "I am rather hungry."

He closed his book in a way that was almost _languid_ and stood up with not a little dignity. "Is it all right if I join you?" He was making eye contact, but it wasn't at all forceful. Hermione found that she almost _wanted_ him to come along anyway-- at least as much as she wanted him to move to Antarctica.

It would have been easy for her to say "No, I prefer to eat alone", but she didn't want to alienate herself from him-- from the rest of the house _entirely_. Already she was dancing on the fringes and if she was going to be stuck in this decade..._ I should be gathering information,_ she thought_, I should be on the inside._ Swiftly, another, more sensible thought occured to her.

_It's only a breakfast._

"Actually," she said, hoping she looked as polite as she felt. "I really prefer to eat alone in the mornings."

"Oh," Tom said, without missing a beat-- almost as though he'd expected that exact response. "I do too, normally. But I am rather starved and was just about to head to the Great Hall myself-- I just thought we might make a stronger early morning showing for Slytherin." He grinned then. "There are always at least twenty Ravenclaws _finishing _breakfast by now. Brom always makes fun of us for it."

Hermione couldn't help herself-- "Well, they do say the early bird gets the worm."-- the pun was just too glaring.

"Exactly what he says," Tom replied, rounding the table and heading toward the wall, which he opened with a flourish. "Shall we?" he asked, an arm stretched to the hall offering to let Hermione leave first.

She stepped out of the common room, a little confused, and they walked toward the Great Hall together.

* * *

Draco was not asleep. Had not slept. Was not planning on sleeping any time this century, really. A single pocket watch lay flat on his chest, secured round his neck by the very thinnist of silver chains yet somehow the whole arrangement felt as heavy and constricting as the thickest iron. He could've sworn the watch was boring its way into his flesh, making its way to his heart and when it finally reached it it'd...

But of course that was pure fantasy and absolute paranoia and all Draco had to do was reach up and move the damn thing off to the side and the weight would be gone. Still, though.

He'd seen Voldemort all right. If ever he'd had any doubt that this Tom Riddle was perhaps slightly less potent, because he seemed so charming and like such a commendable fellow and was a little bungling and always getting into silly arguments-- they were gone. As suddenly as light goes when someone blows out the only candle in a dark room. Of course his doubts on that matter had been so flimsy that, yes, it would have only taken a bit of focused air to erase them entirely...

And while Tom Riddle hadn't exactly unleashed a tornado on them, he'd certainly been _quite_ focused.

When they slunk into the common room, frightened and exhausted, he was sitting-- just as they'd expected-- in a chair near the fireplace. Draco had planned to walk right past him and down to the boy's dormitories. Denial, he felt, was one of his more refined talents. That, of course, hadn't worked out.

He took two steps toward the light and accidentally looked up at Tom's face, which looked, rather ironically, quite pensieve.

"Well," Tom said, stopping Draco in his tracks. "It seems our twisty little Eris has got you all tangled up in something you could easily have been kept out of, hm?"

"He got himself into this," Eris said quite cooly from somewhere behind Draco. She had her arms crossed when she stepped forward enough for him to see her without turning and, strangely, she didn't look as afraid as she should have.

"I'm sure," Tom replied, pulling something from his pocket. The pocket watch in all its silver glory lay flat on his palm. He tapped it with his wand and it flashed white.

In the next instant Draco felt a weight on his chest, around his neck he resisted the urge to touch it.

"You know what that is, I'm sure?" Tom said. Draco nodded miserably. "Good," Tom nodded. "You would've found out quickly in any case. Now off with you."

Draco didn't need to be told twice. He walked briskly toward the dormitory stairs.

"Oh, one more thing," Tom called. Draco turned slowly.

"If you'd run," the Dark Lord drawled. "It wouldn't have made a difference."

That comment stole Draco's breath. He'd just been thinking-- but no, but of course, this was _Voldemort_. He nodded his understanding and made his way down the stairs.

The last thing he heard before entering the dormitory was Tom saying "Now what to do with you?"

Eris's reply of "Nothing worse than you've done already. It's impossible."

And Tom's final, venomous, "How uncharacteristically _optimistic_ of you."

That was that and now Draco was chained. Inextricably. Having that watch was almost as bad as bearing the Dark Mark. _No,_ he thought_, worse_. Because the Dark Mark was just a brand. Simply something that enforced loyalty.

Whereas this watch... he could feel it, pulsing against him. It was almost... _hungry_.

Draco sat up and opened it. It was simply silver on the inside, with a broken clock. He hadn't put anything into it just yet.

For a long while he sat considering its interior as he picked his mind for what he'd learned from Eris. How to cheat the watch.

He'd only caught the briefest glimpse of the way she did it and he hoped he'd be able to do the same. No, he was almost sure he could-- after all, denial was one of his stronger talents. That was probably why Amias and Ardennes had had so much trouble... it was all about that twisty little head of hers.

Draco took a deep breath and tried to re-remember...

* * *

zOMG an update.


	22. twenty three: notes and quotes

**CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO**

_November 15, 1996 (Thursday)_

notes and quotes

* * *

Blaise led them upstairs to use the library fireplace. "Mum never goes up there," he explained, grabbing the bannister. "Doesn't get along with the resident specter."

"There's a ghost in your library?" Millicent asked, taking the steps one by one carefully.

"She's not interesting," Blaise warned. "In fact, she's annoying as hell." The Zabini shook his head and took a right turn. "Whenever anyone's in there she gets on them to turn pages so she can read. Starts whining something furious if you happen to say 'no'."

Harry's eyebrows furrowed. "Turn... pages?"

"She can't do it herself," Blaise shrugged. "Her hands go right through them-- side effect of being dead, I suppose." He paused in front of the library door. "She doesn't appear in front of company... well not that anyone's been in there for a while, but I mean," he turned to the door. "I'm pretty sure she won't bother us."

The door wailed open, kicking up a cloud of dust as it swung.

"Zabini's are a clean lot then?" Millicent observed with a drolly raised eyebrow.

"Oh, Milly-billy," Blaise pretended to swoon. "What ever would I do without your exquisite sarcasm?"

Millicent ignored him and stepped into the musty room. Harry followed close behind her.

"Looks like no one's been in here for ages," Harry muttered under his breath. He noted how every step he took sent _some_ sort of filth flying and cringed behind his glasses.

Then he felt a chill go along the base of his skull--

"Ten years, two months, six days, and I'd say seven hours, but really who's counting?"

--and he jumped backward. A girl'd just materialized in front of him. She was quite see through and wearing simple clothes-- a skirt and blouse.

Blaise frozed at the door. The treacherous thing closed heavily behind him. "Oh," he said, "Hello Ma'am."

The ghost glared and Harry felt a bit at a loss. "Don't Ma'am me," she said. Long hair hovered behind her-- she practically radiated indignation. "You _left_ me on page 355 of that book!" she pointed with some vehemence toward a table near the fireplace. "It was the start of a chapter--it only had one large paragraph on it!"

Blaise twiddled his thumbs and arranged his mouth into a small "o" in an attempt to appear innocent. "I--uh..."

The ghost didn't buy it. Her arms wheeled with desperate anger. "Do you have _any_ idea what it's like to have _nothing_ to do for _ten_ years but read _one_ paragraph over and over and over and OVER and hope that little boy, who you _thought_ was rather nice and who actually turned out to be a rather _selfish_ little rotter comes back to turn pages for you!"

"Uh," Blaise said. "Sorry, Ma'am?"

"Ma'am" looked absolutely breathless at the end of her tirade. Of course, she was dead and therefore technically hadn't been breathing at the beginning of it _anyway_, which confused Harry just a little. He'd have asked Hermione if she'd been there, but, well...

And wasn't that just a kick in the face.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Hagrid standing sheepishly in the corner. Blaise's hand flicked into and out of his peripheral vision and directly in front of the Boy-Who-Wasn't-Quite-Sure-He-Liked-Living-Now-That-The-Business-Had-Got-So-Complicated, Millicent Bulstrode stood looking rather bored.

"OH!" the ghost woman wailed with a startling sort of angry sarcasm. "You're _sorry_, eh? You know I could bloody _recite_ that page to you?" she went on, unrelenting in her apparent desire to make Blaise squirm. "Aureliano did not leave Melquiades room for a long time. He learned by heart the fantastic--"

"Ok, ok!" Blaise put his hands up in surrender. "I'm sorry! I'm really, _really_ sorry!"

The ghost backed off just a bit. "So you'll help me finish the book now?" She glanced around the room, a suspicious glint in her eye. "That _is_ why you've come isn't it?"

Harry thought her tone was a bit aggressive and by the look of it so did Hagrid. The poor giant's face had gone the color of a fish belly.

"Erm," Blaise hedged, tugging at his color. "Yes?"

And all of a sudden, the ghost brightened so much so that she practically glowed. "All right then," she beamed. "We were sitting right there." She pointed again to the table near the fireplace and the brown arm chair a few feet away from it.

Blaise gave a deep, shoulder slumping sigh. "I remember," he said.

The ghost floated to the seat and hovered over the book. "Well, come on!" she said, keeping her tone brisk. "You've kept me waiting--"

"Ten years," Blaise finished. "I know; I know." He trudged over to the chair and Harry thought he saw him shoot Millicent a rather pitiful look on the way.

The Gryffindor headed over to her. "Er," he began. "What are we supposed to do now?"

"Well," the stout Slytherin girl shrugged. "Blaise _wanted_ us to throw that book out of the window for him."

"How'd you know that?" Harry asked, finding his voice inexplicably dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I didn't hear him say a thing."

"It was the arm flailing," Millicent nodded. _Her_ voice echoed with knowledgeability. "I suppose you couldn't see from where you were standing."

Harry shook his head. "Where do you suppose they keep the floo powder?"

Hagrid ambled over and pointed. "S'tha it on the mantle?"

At which point Harry adjusted his glasses. "Seems to be," he nodded a bit sheepishly, before marching toward it.

Millicent's voice halted him then. "I hate to be a bother," she piped up. "But do we have any idea _where_ McGonagall and the like _are_?" She said.

The escapees looked at each other and then at Blaise, who seemed much too dedicated to his page-turning duties to look up at that precise moment.

* * *

Minerva McGonagall adjusted her glasses, straightened her robes, and set her face before striding out of her tent. The midday sun was bright, but nothing compared to the wind chill, so she flicked her wand and whispered a quick charm for warmth as she went. Her goal was not ten meters ahead of her-- the black tent that housed Severus Snape and his mother. Aurors kept watch throughout the recently assembled camp and McGonagall nodded at the two assigned specifically to guard the Snapes.

She barged in on what appeared to be the start of a conversation between the two and cleared her throat loudly.

"Now _what_ has been going on? Severus? Elaina? One of you, out with it."

Her lips were pressed into the finest of lines and both former Slytherins knew she meant business.

Elaina nodded. "What did you want to know first?" she asked. "Where your missing students have gone, or what happened to your Headmaster?"

Minerva very nearly slumped, but she didn't. She stood up, imagining that her backbone was an old stone tower. "Albus first," she said. "Then why you're with Him."

Severus never stopped marveling at the way people managed to say that word and imply its capital letter without writing. He supposed fear had something to do with it. "I assure you, Minerva," he began. "We are not 'With Him'. Are you really still so unsure of my loyalty that you feel we need to be _guarded_--"

"It was Moody," Minerva replied, nearly sighing. "And is it really so important, Severus?"

Elaina smiled at the Transfiguration Professor. "You'll have to excuse him," she said. "We've been cooped up for quite sometime, you see." She readjusted her hands in her lap as though hiding something under them, before turning back to McGonagall. Wanly, she said, "I think you were in some need of information?"

* * *

Harry tossed the floo powder and caught it casually. Tossed it, caught it. Millicent, arms crossed, muttered to herself-- Harry only caught snatches of what she was saying, but mostly it seemed to be things like "Damned Zabini" and "Must be some way to figure out where they are".

Blaise was still turning pages for his nutty house ghost. Harry couldn't help noticing that Hagrid kept glancing at the her and sort of squinting. "Do you know her?" Harry asked, curiously. "Or did you?"

"Can' say," Hagrid replied, inhaling grandly. "I think if I did she'd 'ave reco'nized me, eh?" He squinted again. "Still," he said. Then he scratched his head. "Must be mistaken," he said. "Ghosts 're always exci'ed to see people they used to know."

Harry shrugged. "I woudn't know."

"Merlin," Millicent was saying. "If only we had an owl."

Blaise looked up from where he sat. "No, no, and no," he said. "There is no way I am leaving this room while my mother is still in the house. Have I mentioned that she's a Malfoy and that she's a terror? Because she's both and--"

"Page," the ghost interrupted, her eyes narrowed

Blaise flipped obediently.

"I hardly think aving you from your mother is as important as letting McGonagall know we haven't killed The Boy Who Lived and don't plan to," Millicent remarked.

Blaise shook his head. "Only because you haven't met her."

"Should we go out and get the owl?" that was Goyle from near the window.

"Oh, no no no no no. Then she'd come find me," Blaise said. "My eardrums can't take it. I'd go deaf, really, I would."

Millicent stuck her hands on her hips. "So what do you propose we do then?"

"Sit tight?" Blaise tried. "Wait for someone to find us?"

Harry gave Blaise a look then, that made the other boy feel like a very small person indeed. "In that case, what was the point of running?"

Blase sighed. "She usually goes shopping in the early evening. If we can just wait for, you know, half the day..."

"Who knows what might happen in half a day!" Millicent threw up her hands.

The ghost glared at the lot of them. "Page."

Blaise flipped it. "It's really not that long. I mean eight hours or so? Not half the day, strictly speaking."

"Aren't you at all interested in finding out what happened last night?" Millicent asked, strolling quite purposefully toward Blaise and the ghost. "Just a little?"

"Oh for Christ's sake!" the ghost erupted. "Why don't you just transfigure one of these books into an owl, hm? Or a miniature airplane if you want to get creative. Then you can put a note in it and spell it to go off and find Very. I know it wouldn't be the same as one of those fancy, highly trained Seeking owls the Zabinis are accustomed to using, but I assure you it'll work nonetheless so long as your spellwork is sound. Simple as that. Now will you all please be quiet?" she said, huffing. "I am trying to read."

Only one person broke the silence that followed. Gregory Goyle, eyebrows crunching terribly, asked:

"What's an airplane?"

For a long while, no one answered.

* * *

For the second time in the past twenty-four hours, Minerva was startled by a large, flying object.

It knocked itself against the tent flap rather insistently, and when it was finally allowed entrance it slid in sideways and spinning irregularly. On its side, the words "For Professor McGonagall" were written.

The Transfiguration Professor considered the floating object through the lower half of her glasses. An Auror poked his head into the tent. "We don't rightly know what it is, but we think it's safe." He said.

"Thank you," Minerva nodded. She was about to pluck a piece of parchment from the object's interior, but it whirled quickly and zipped out of the tent. She pursed her lips at it, drew herself and up, and followed it out. It was hovering shakily between the two Aurors, who were pointing their wands at it a bit half-heartedly.

Huffing, McGonagall snapped up the parchment. Immediately after she did so, the object shuddered and dropped to the ground. She cast a distasteful look its way, before whirling back into the tent.

Severus Snape craned his neck as though trying to see it again. "What _was_ that thing?" he asked.

Elaina's forehead crinkled. She couldn't help it. "I think muggles call them aeroplanes?"

Minerva unfolded the note.

_Professor McGonagall - _

_I'm alive, safe, and with Millicent Bulstrode, Gregory Goyle, Blaise Zabini, and Hagrid_. _They did not kidnap me. We are currently at the Zabini estate, please contact us as soon as possible._

_- Harry_

"Oh, Merlin," McGonagall sighed. "That's a relief."

* * *

Voldemort paced the Head Boy's room, frowning.

Such juveneille quarters, but he couldn't bear being in the Headmaster's office. All those portraits screaming at him over the charred desk and burnt up wallpaper; his ears were still ringing. That wasn't even his worst problem. Wormtail simpered at his side,

"Sir, we seemed to have lost Nott."

Another one. Not dead. Lost. In a school the man had spent seven years in.

Absolutely ridiculous. The shifting floor plan had been rather _malicious_ since the Death Eaters' occupation of the castle and Voldemort couldn't help but think back to that old man's parting words.

"Every stone is against you."

Ridiculous.

* * *

Disclaimer:

The book Blaise is flipping the pages of is One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. I don't own it.

Notes:

The AIR rewrite is up and being worked on diligently. Somewhat diligently. It's called Naughts and Crosses. Sooo... yeah.


	23. very important notice

**VERY IMPORTANT NOTE:**

**(I'm bookending my story with this, because it's THAT important)**

**I am working very hard on the rewrite of this story, which is currently posted as _Noughts and Crosses. _It is so much better and closer to my intended plot that I have actually decided to discontinue this story for the time being. **

**As much as I really don't want to, I'll be leaving this version up. It always really irritates me when authors decide to rewrite stories and completely take down the old versions and then get like ten chapters into the rewrite and stop or something. Also, maybe, there was something you really wanted to read from the old version only you couldn't because they killed it and it's really irritating, etc. So, this version is staying here.**

**HOWEVER, I am actually _committed_ to the rewrite. Yup, you read that. Committed. I really, really would like to finish this story in the best way that I possibly can.**

**So, if you like the characters and you like the plot, I _seriously_ advise that you read _Noughts and Crosses_ which has both, but better written and generally better executed.**

**The rewrite seems a bit darker and more serious, but if you liked the humor of this, don't think it's gone. I've never managed to write a serious thing in my life without it sounding really awkward to me (which is why, incidentally, I have to revise and revise and revise The Raveller/Happily Ever After-- that story really isn't funny at all until at least chapter three, so getting there is...yeah, awkward). So it's in there. Trust me. **

**Also I AM writing The Life and Times. I know it seems like I haven't updated that story in _forever_, but it's actually incredibly hard to write. Because he's so evil, but I keep wanting to make him so funny and it's like evil-funny-evil-funny-evil-funny... the balance is really delicate there. I mean, you'd think it wouldn't be, but for some reason, it's hard. I'm a paragraph in with chapter four, though, and it's looking pretty good so far. If you haven't read that story, you should go and check it out while you're waiting for my slow self to update the AIR rewrite. Which by the way is good and different enough from this version to be readable (Plus, really, when's the last time you actually read the beginning of this version anyway?). **

**Really though. _The Life and Times of Tom Riddle, Dark Lord, etc._ is one of the few works of mine that I can say, without a doubt, that I actually _like_. _Noughts and Crosses_ is much, much better than _After it Rains-- _and it's the same story.**

**So if you want to get to clicking and reading some (I hope, at least) fairly decent TRxHG my profile thingy is right up there. **

**If you've followed this story from the beginning (which is a realllllly long time) I want you to know that I really did try to update this version. I just couldn't. I didn't know where to go with it, I wrote myself into a hole and the plot got stupid and blah di blah. But _Noughts and Crosses _is better. It's like everything that's good in this, plus other things that are better. So really, really, you should read it. Please? If I ever _can_ write for this again, believe me, I will. But right now, at this moment, it doesn't seem like I'll be able to for a while.**


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